THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME 
A  UTHOR 


"THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  PRAIRIE  GIRL,"  — 
The  Century  Co. 

"THE  PLOW-WOMAN."—  The  Century  Co. 

" CUPID:  THE  COW-PUNCHER,"  —Doubleday, 
Page  6-»  Co.  * 

"GoOD-NiGHT," — T.   Y.  Crowell 

"  THE  JUSTICE  OF  GIDEON," — The  Macau- 
lay  Co. 


3,      *>**-£    -'••-:-    ^ 


e  ..."•    \  :  H  ••  •  ; 


"THIS  WAS  A  NOVEL  EXPERIENCE,  THIS  HAVING  BOTH  FATHER 
AND  MOTHER  IN  THE  NURSERY  AT  THE 
SAME  TIME"— See 


The 
Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 


BY 

ELEANOR  GATES 


NEW  YORK 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

1913 


Copyright  1912  by 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


ttl 


TO 
RICHARD 


271009 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"This  was  a  novel  experience,  this  having  both 
father  and  mother  in  the  nursery  at  the  same 
time."  (See  Page  417.)  ....  Frontispiece 

"Gwendolyn  pulled  hard  at  Jane's  hand"    ...     48 

"She  slipped  from  one  step  to  another  warily,  one 
hand  carrying  her  slippers" 149 

"In  one  hand  he  held  a  huge,  curved  knife"     .      .   206 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

CHAPTER  I 

TTALFWAY  up  the  shining  surface  of 
the  gilt-framed  pier  glass  was  a  mark 
— a  tiny  ink-line  that  had  been  carefully 
drawn  across  the  outer  edge  of  the  wide 
bevel.  As  Gwendolyn  stared  at  the  line, 
the  reflection  of  her  small  face  in  the  mir- 
ror grew  suddenly  all  white,  as  if  some 
rude  hand  had  reached  out  and  brushed 
away  the  pink  from  cheeks  and  lips. 
Arms  rigid  at  her  sides,  and  open  palms 
pressed  hard  against  the  flaring  skirts  of 
her  riding-coat,  she  shrank  back  from  the 
glass. 

"Oo-oo!"    she    breathed,    aghast.    The 
gray  eyes  swam. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

After  a  incment,  however,  she  blinked 
resolutely  to  clear  her  sight,  stepped  for- 
ward again,  and,  straightening  her  slender 
little  figure  to  its  utmost  height,  measured 
herself  a  second  time  against  the  mirror. 

But — as  before — the  top  of  her  yellow 
head  did  not  reach  above  the  ink-mark — 
not  by  the  smallest  part  of  an  inch!  So 
there  was  no  longer  any  reason  to  hope! 
The  worst  was  true!  She  had  drawn  the 
tiny  line  across  the  edge  of  the  bevel  the 
evening  before,  when  she  was  only  six 
years  old;  now  it  was  mid-morning  of  an- 
other day,  and  she  was  seven — yet  she  was 
not  a  whit  taller! 

The;  tears  began  to  overflow.  She 
pressed  her  embroidered  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  Then,  stifling  a  sob,  she  crossed 
the  nursery,  stumbling  once  or  twice  as 
she  made  toward  the  long  cushioned  seat 
that  stretched  the  whole  width  of  the 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

front  window.  There,  among  the  down- 
filled  pillows,  with  her  loose  hair  falling 
about  her  wet  cheeks  and  screening  them, 
she  lay  down. 

For  months  she  had  looked  forward  with 
secret  longing  to  this  seventh  anniversary. 
Every  morning  she  had  taken  down  the 
rose-embossed  calendar  that  stood  on  the 
top  of  her  gold-and-white  writing-desk 
and  tallied  off  another  of  the  days  that  in- 
tervened before  her  birthday.  And  the 
previous  evening  she  had  measured  her- 
self against  the  pier  glass  without  even  a 
single  misgiving. 

She  rose  at  an  early  hour.  Her  waking 
look  was  toward  the  pier  glass.  Her  one 
thought  was  to  gauge  her  new  height. 
But  the  morning  was  the  usual  busy  one. 
When  Jane  finished  bathing  and  dressing 
her,  Miss  Royle  summoned  her  to  break- 
fast. An  hour  in  the  school-room  followed 

3 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

— an  hour  of  quiet  study,  but  under  the 
watchful  eye  of  the  governess.  Next, 
Gwendolyn  changed  her  dressing-gown 
for  a  riding-habit,  and  with  Jane  holding 
her  by  one  small  hand,  and  with  Thomas 
following,  stepped  into  the  bronze  cage 
that  dropped  down  so  noiselessly  from 
nursery  floor  to  wide  entrance-hall.  Out- 
side, the  limousine  was  waiting.  She  and 
Jane  entered  it.  Thomas  took  his  seat 
beside  the  chauffeur.  And  in  a  moment 
the  motor  was  speeding  away. 

At  the  riding-school,  her  master  gave  her 
the  customary  lesson :  She  circled  the  tan- 
bark  on  her  fat  brown  pony — now  to  the 
right,  at  a  walk;  now  to  the  left,  at  a  trot; 
now  back  to  the  right  again  at  a  rattling 
canter,  with  her  yellow  hair  whipping  her 
shoulders,  and  her  three-cornered  hat 
working  farther  and  farther  back  on  her 
bobbing  head,  and  tugging  hard  at  the 

4 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

elastic  under  her  dimpled  chin.  After 
nearly  an  hour  of  this  walk,  trot  and  can- 
ter she  was  very  rosy,  and  quite  out  of 
breath.  Then  she  was  put  back  into  the 
limousine  and  driven  swiftly  home.  And 
it  was  not  until  after  her  arrival  that  she 
had  a  moment  entirely  to  herself,  and  the 
first  opportunity  of  comparing  her  height 
with  the  tiny  ink-line  on  the  edge  of  the 
mirror's  bevel. 

Now  as  she  lay,  face  down,  on  the  win- 
dow-seat, she  knew  how  vain  had  been  all 
the  longing  of  months.  The  realization, 
so  sudden  and  unexpected,  was  a  blow. 
The  slender  little  figure  among  the  cush- 
ions quivered  under  it. 

But  all  at  once  she  sat  up.  And  disap- 
pointment and  grief  gave  place  to  appre- 
hension. rc  I  wonder  what's  the  matter 
with  me,"  she  faltered  aloud.  "Oh,  some- 
thing awful,  I  guess." 

5 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  next  moment  caution  succeeded 
fear.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran 
across  the  room.  That  tell-tale  mark  was 
still  on  the  mirror,  for  nurse  or  governess 
to  see  and  question.  And  it  was  advis- 
able that  no  one  should  learn  the  unhappy 
truth.  Her  handkerchief  was  damp  with 
tears.  She  gathered  the  tiny  square  of 
linen  into  a  tight  ball  and  rubbed  at  the 
ink-line  industriously. 

She  was  not  a  moment  too  soon. 
Scarcely  had  she  regained  the  window- 
seat,  when  the  hall  door  opened  and 
Thomas  appeared  on  the  sill,  almost  fill- 
ing the  opening  with  his  tall  figure.  As 
a  rule  he  wore  his  very  splendid  foot- 
man's livery  of  dark  blue  coat  with  dull- 
gold  buttons,  blue  trousers,  and  striped 
buff  waistcoat.  Now  he  wore  street- 
clothes,  and  he  had  a  leash  in  his  hand. 

6 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Is  Jane  about,  Miss  Gwendolyn?"  he 
inquired.  Then,  seeing  that  Gwendolyn 
was  alone,  "Would  you  mind  tellin'  her 
when  she  comes  that  I'm  out  takin'  the 
Madam's  dogs  for  a  walk?" 

Gwendolyn  had  a  new  thought.  "A — 
a  walk?"  she  repeated.  And  stood  up. 

"But  tell  Jane,  if  you  please,"  con- 
tinued he,  "that  I'll  be  back  in  time  to  go 
— well,  she  knows  where."  This  was 
said  significantly.  He  turned. 

"Thomas!"  Gwendolyn  hastened 
across  to  him.  "Wait  till  I  put  on  my  hat. 
I'm — I'm  going  with  you."  Her  riding- 
hat  lay  among  the  dainty  pink-and-white 
articles  on  her  crystal-topped  dressing- 
table.  She  caught  it  up. 

"Miss  Gwendolyn !"  exclaimed  Thomas, 
astonished. 

"I'm  seven,"  declared  Gwendolyn, 
7 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

struggling  with  the  hat-elastic.  "I'm  a 
whole  year  older  than  I  was  yesterday. 
And — and  I'm  grown-up." 

An  exasperating  smile  lifted  Thomas's 
lip.  "Oh,  are  you !"  he  observed. 

The  hat  settled,  she  met  his  look 
squarely.  (Did  he  suspicion  anything?) 
"Tes.  And  you  take  the  dogs  out  to  walk. 
So" — she  started  to  pass  him — "I'm  go- 
ing to  walk." 

His  hair  was  black  and  straight.  Now 
it  seemed  fairly  to  bristle  with  amazement. 
"I  couldn't  take  you  if  you  was  grown- 
up," he  asserted  firmly,  blocking  her  ad- 
vance; " — leastways  not  without  Miss 
Royle  or  Jane'd  say  Yes.  It'd  be  worth 
my  job." 

Gwendolyn  lowered  her  eyes,  stood  a 
moment  in  indecision,  then  pulled  off  the 
hat,  tossed  it  aside,  went  back  to  the  win- 
dow, and  sat  down. 

8 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  one  end  of  the  seat,  swung  high  on 
its  gilded  spring,  danced  the  dome-topped 
cage  of  her  canary.  Presently  she  raised 
her  face  to  him.  He  was  traveling  tire- 
lessly from  perch  to  cage-floor,  from  floor 
to  trapeze  again.  His  wings  were  half 
lifted  from  his  little  body — the  bright 
yellow  of  her  own  hair.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  ready  for  flight.  His  round  black 
eyes  were  constantly  turned  toward  the 
world  beyond  the  window.  He  perked 
his  head  inquiringly,  and  cheeped.  Now 
and  then,  with  a  wild  beating  of  his 
pinions,  he  sprang  sidewise  to  the  shin- 
ing bars  of  the  cage,  and  hung  there, 
panting. 

She  watched  him  for  a  time;  made  a 
slow  survey  of  the  nursery  next, — and 
sighed. 

"Poor  thing!5'  she  murmured. 

She  heard  the  rustle  of  silk  skirts  from 
9 


The  Poor  Little  RicH  Girl 

the  direction  of  the  school-room.  Hastily 
she  shook  out  the  embroidered  handker- 
chief and  put  it  against  her  eyes. 

A  door  opened.  "There  will  be  no 
lessons  this  afternoon,  Gwendolyn/'  It 
was  Miss  Royle's  voice. 

Gwendolyn  did  not  speak.  But  she 
lowered  the  handkerchief  a  trifle — and 
noted  that  the  governess  was  dressed  for 
going  out — in  a  glistening  black  silk  plen- 
tifully ornamented  with  jet  paillettes. 

Miss  Royle  rustled  her  way  to  the  pier- 
glass  to  have  a  last  look  at  her  bonnet. 
It  was  a  poke,  with  a  quilted  ribbon 
circling  its  brim,  and  some  lace  arranged 
fluffily.  It  did  not  reach  many  inches 
above  the  spot  where  Gwendolyn  had 
drawn  the  ink-line,  for  Miss  Royle  was 
small.  When  she  had  given  the  poke 
a  pat  here  and  a  touch  there,  she  leaned 
forward  to  get  a  better  view  of  her  face. 

10 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  had  a  pale,  thin  face  and  thin  faded 
hair.  On  either  side  of  a  high  bony  nose 
were  set  her  pale-blue  eyes.  Shutting 
them  in,  and  perched  on  the  thinnest  part 
of  her  nose,  were  silver-circled  spectacles. 

"I'm  very  glad  I  can  give  you  a  half- 
holiday,  dear/'  she  went  on.  But  her 
tone  was  somewhat  sorrowful.  She  de- 
tached a  small  leaf  of  paper  from  a  tiny 
book  in  her  hand-bag  and  rubbed  it  across 
her  forehead.  "For  my  neuralgia  is  much 
worse  to-day."  She  coughed  once  or 
twice  behind  a  lisle-gloved  hand,  snapped 
the  clasp  of  her  hand-bag  and  started  to- 
ward the  hall  door. 

It  was  now  that  for  the  first  time  she 
looked  at  Gwendolyn — and  caught  sight 
of  the  bowed  head,  the  grief-flushed 
cheeks,  the  suspended  handkerchief. 
She  stopped  short. 

"Gwendolyn!"      she     exclaimed,      an- 
ii 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

noyed.  "I  hope  you're  not  going  to  be 
cross  and  troublesome,  and  make  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  have  a  couple  of  hours 
to  myself  this  afternoon — especially  when 
I'm  suffering."  Then,  coaxingly,  "You 
can  amuse  yourself  with  one  of  your  nice 
pretend-games,  dear." 

From  under  long  up-curling  lashes, 
Gwendolyn  regarded  her  in  silence. 

"I've  planned  to  lunch  out,"  went  on 
Miss  Royle.  "But  you  won't  mind,  will 
you,  dear  Gwendolyn?"  plaintively. 
"For  I'll  be  back  at  tea-time.  And  be- 
sides"— growing  brighter — "you're  to 
have — what  do  you  think! — the  birth- 
day cake  Cook  has  made." 

"I  hate  cake!"  burst  out  Gwendolyn; 
and  covered  her  eyes  once  more. 

"Gwen-do-lyn!"  breathed  Miss  Royle. 

Gwendolyn  sat  very  still. 

"How  can  you  be  so  naughty!     Oh,  it's 

12 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

really  wicked  and  ungrateful  of  you  to 
be  fretting  and  complaining — you  who 
have  so  many  blessings!  But  you  don't 
appreciate  them  because  you've  always 
had  them.  Well," — mournfully  solici- 
tous—"I  trust  they'll  never  be  taken  from 
you,  my  child.  Ah,  /  know  how  bitter 
such  a  loss  is !  I  haven't  always  been  in  my 
present  circumstances,  compelled  to  go  out 
among  strangers  to  earn  a  scant  living. 
Once—" 

Here  she  was  interrupted.  The  door 
from  the  school-room  swung  wide  with  a 
bang.  Gwendolyn,  looking  up,  saw  her 
nurse. 

Jane  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  Miss  Royle 
— taller  and  stocky,  with  broad  shoulders 
and  big  arms.  As  she  halted  against  the 
open  school-room  door,  her  hair  was  as 
ruddy  as  the  panel  that  made  a  back- 
ground for  it.  And  she  had  reddish  eyes, 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

and  a  full  round  face.  In  the  midst  of 
her  face,  and  all  out  of  proportion  to  it, 
was  her  short  turned-up  nose,  which  was 
plentifully  sprinkled  with  freckles. 

"So  you're  goin'  out?"  she  began  an- 
grily, addressing  the  governess. 

Miss  Royle  retreated  a  step.  "Just  for 
a — a  couple  of  hours/'  she  explained. 

Jane's  face  grew  almost  as  red  as  her 
hair.  Slamming  the  school-room  door  be- 
hind her,  she  advanced.  "I  suppose  it's 
the  neuralgia  again,"  she  suggested  with 
quiet  heat. 

The  color  stole  into  Miss  Royle' s  pale 
cheeks.  She  coughed.  "It  is  a  little 
worse  than  usual  this  afternoon,"  she  ad- 
mitted. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Jane.  "It's  al- 
ways worse — on  bargain-days" 

"How  dare  you!" 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"You  ask  me  that,  do  you? — you  old 
snake-in-the-grass!"  Now  Jane  grew 
pallid  with  anger. 

Gwendolyn,  listening,  contemplated 
her  governess  thoughtfully.  She  had 
often  heard  her  pronounced  a  snake-in-the- 
grass. 

Miss  Royle  was  also  pale.  "That  will 
do!"  she  declared.  "I  shall  report  you  to 
Madam." 

"Report!"  echoed  Jane,  giving  a  loud, 
harsh  laugh,  and  shaking  her  hair — the 
huge  pompadour  in  front,  the  pug  behind. 
"Well,  go  ahead.  And  I'll  report  you — 
and  your  handy  neuralgia." 

"It's  your  duty  to  look  after  Gwen- 
dolyn when  there  are  no  lessons,"  re- 
minded Miss  Royle,  but  weakening  no- 
ticeably. 

"On  w^£-days?"  shrilled  Jane.  "Oh, 
15 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

don't  try  to  fool  me  with  any  of  your 
schemin' !  /  see.  And  I  just  laugh  in  my 
sleeve!" 

Gwendolyn  fixed  inquiring  gray  eyes 
upon  that  sleeve  of  Jane's  dress  which  was 
the  nearer.  It  was  of  black  sateen.  It 
fitted  the  stout  arm  sleekly. 

"This  is  the  dear  child's  birthday,  and 
I  wish  her  to  have  the  afternoon  free." 

"A-a-ah!  Then  why  don't  you  take  her 
out  with  you?  You  like  the  automobile 
nice  enough," — this  sneeringly. 

Miss  Royle  tossed  her  head.  "I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  be  using  the  car,"  she  an- 
swered, with  fine  sarcasm. 

Jane  began  to  argue,  throwing  out  both 
hands:  "How  was  I  to  know  to-day  was 
her  birthday?  You  might' ve  told  me 
about  it;  instead,  just  all  of  a  sudden,  you 
shove  her  off  on  my  hands." 

Gwendolyn's  eyes  narrowed  resentfully. 
16 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Miss  Royle  gave  a  quick  look  toward 
the  window-seat.  "You  mean  you've 
made  plans?"  she  asked,  concern  sup- 
planting anger  in  her  voice. 

To  all  appearances  Jane  was  near  to 
tears.  She  did  not  answer.  She  nodded 
dejectedly. 

"Well,  Jane,  you  shall  have  to-morrow 
afternoon/5  declared  Miss  Royle,  sooth- 
ingly. "Is  that  fair?  I  didn't  know 
you'd  counted  on  to-day.  So — "  Here 
another  glance  shot  window-ward.  Then 
she  beckoned  Jane.  They  went  into  the 
hall.  And  Gwendolyn  heard  them  whis- 
pering together. 

When  Jane  came  back  into  the  nursery 
she  looked  almost  cheerful.  "Now  off 
with  that  habit,"  she  called  to  Gwendolyn 
briskly.  "And  into  something  for  your 
dinner." 

"I  want  to  wear  a  plaid  dress,"   an- 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

nounced  Gwendolyn,  getting  down  from 
her  seat  slowly. 

Jane  was  selecting  a  white  muslin  from 
a  tall  wardrobe.  "Little  girls  ain't  wear- 
in'  plaids  this  year/'  she  declared  shortly. 
"Come." 

"Well,  then,  I  want  a  dress  that's  got 
a  pocket,"  went  on  Gwendolyn,  " — a 
pocket  'way  down  on  this  side."  She 
touched  the  right  skirt  of  her  riding- 
coat. 

"They  ain't  makin'  pockets  in  little 
girls'  dresses  this  year,"  said  Jane. 
"Come!  Come!" 

'They,' :  repeated  Gwendolyn. 
"Who  are  They'?  I'd  like  to  know; 
'cause  I  could  telephone  'em  and — " 

"Hush  your  nonsense!"  bade  Jane. 
Then,  catching  at  the  delicate  square  of 
linen  in  Gwendolyn's  hand,  "How'd  you 

git  ink  smeared  over  your  handkerchief? 

18 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

What  do  you  suppose  your  mamma' d  say 
if  she  was  to  come  upon  it?  Yd  be  blamed 
— as  usual!" 

"Who  are  They'?5  persisted  Gwen- 
dolyn. "  They'  do  so  many  things.  And 
I  want  to  tell  'em  that  I  like  pockets  in  all 
my  dresses." 

Jane  ignored  the  question. 

r<Yesterday  you  said  They'  would  send 
us  soda- water,"  went  on  Gwendolyn — 
talking  to  herself  now,  rather  than  to  the 
nurse.  "And  I'd  like  to  know  where 
They'  find  soda-water."  Whereupon 
she  fell  to  pondering  the  question.  Evi- 
dently this,  like  many  another  pro- 
pounded to  Jane  or  Miss  Royle;  to 
Thomas;  to  her  music- teacher,  Miss 
Brown;  to  Mademoiselle  Du  Bois,  her 
French  teacher;  and  to  her  teacher  of  Ger- 
man, was  one  that  was  meant  to  remain 
a  secret  of  the  grown-ups. 

19 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Jane,  having  unbuttoned  the  riding- 
coat,  pulled  at  the  small  black  boots. 
She  was  also  talking  to  herself,  for  her 
lips  moved. 

The  moment  Gwendolyn  caught  sight 
of  her  unshod  feet,  she  had  a  new  idea — 
the  securing  of  a  long-denied  privilege  by 
urging  the  occasion.  "Oh,  Jane,"  she 
cried.  "May  I  go  barefoot? — just  for  a 
little  while.  I  want  to."  Jane  stripped 
off  the  cobwebby  stockings.  Gwendolyn 
wriggled  her  ten  pink  toes.  "May  I, 
Jane?" 

'You  can  go  barefoot  to  bed"   said 
Jane. 

Gwendolyn's  bed  stood  midway  of  the 
nursery,  partly  hidden  by  a  high  tapes- 
tried screen.  It  was  a  beautiful  bed, 
carved  and  enamelled,  and  panelled — 
head  and  foot — with  woven  cane.  But 
to  Gwendolyn  it  was,  by  day,  a  white  in- 

20 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

struinent  of  torture.  She  gave  it  a  glance 
of  disfavor  now,  and  refrained  from  pur- 
suing her  idea. 

When  the  muslin  dress  was  donned,  and 
a  pink  satin  hair-bow  replaced  the  black 
one  that  bobbed  on  Gwendolyn's  head 
when  she  rode,  she  returned  to  the  window 
and  sat  down.  The  seat  was  deep,  and 
her  shiny  patent-leather  slippers  stuck 
straight  out  in  front  of  her.  In  one  hand 
she  held  a  fresh  handkerchief.  She 
nibbled  at  it  thoughtfully.  She  was  still 
wondering  about  "They." 

Thomas  looked  cross  when  he  came  in 
to  serve  her  noon  dinner.  He  arranged 
the  table  with  a  jerk  and  a  bang. 

"So  old  Royle  up  and  outed,  did  she?" 
he  said  to  Jane. 

"Hush!"  counseled  Jane,  significantly, 
and  rolled  her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
window-seat. 

21 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  stopped  nibbling  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"And  our  plans  is  spoiled/5  went  on 
Thomas.  "Well,  ain't  that  our  luck! 
And  I  suppose  you  couldn't  manage  to 
leave  a  certain  party — " 

Gwendolyn  had  been  watching  Thomas. 
Now  she  fell  to  observing  the  silver 
buckles  on  her  slippers.  She  might  not 
know  who  "They"  were.  But  "a  certain 
party" — 

"Leave?"  repeated  Jane.  "Who  with? 
Not  alone,  surely  you  don't  mean.  For 
something's  gone  wrong  already  to-day,  as 
you'll  see  if  you'll  use  your  eyes.  And  a 
fuss  or  a  howl'd  mean  that  somebody' d 
hear,  and  tattle  to  the  Madam,  and— 

Thomas  said  something  under  his 
breath. 

"So  we  can't  go  after  all,"   resumed 

Jane;  " — leastways  not  like  we'd  counted 

22 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

on.  And  it's  too  exasperatin'.  Here  I 
am,  a  person  that  likes  my  freedom  once 
in  a  while,  and  a  glimpse  at  the  shop-win- 
dows,— exactly  as  much  as  old  you-know- 
who  does — and  a  bit  of  tea  afterwards 
with  a — a  friend." 

At  this  point,  Gwendolyn  glanced  up 
—just  in  time  to  see  Thomas  regarding 
Jane  with  a  broad  grin.  And  Jane  was 
smiling  back  at  him,  her  face  so  suffused 
with  blushes  that  there  was  not  a  freckle 
to  be  seen. 

Now  Jane  sighed,  and  stood  looking 
down  with  hands  folded.  "What  good 
does  it  do  to  talk,  though,"  she  observed 
sadly.  "Day  in  and  day  out,  day  in  and 
day  out,  I  have  to  dance  attendance." 

It  was  Gwendolyn's  turn  to  color.  She 
got  down  quickly  and  came  forward. 

"Sh!"  warned  Thomas.  He  busied 
himself  with  laying  the  silver. 

23 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  halted  in  front  of  Jane, 
and  lifted  a  puzzled  face.  "But — but, 
Jane,"  she  began  defensively^  "you  don't 
ever  dance." 

"Now,  whatever  do  you  think  I  was 
talkin'  about?"  demanded  Jane,  roughly. 
"You  dance,  don't  you,  at  Monsoor  Tel- 
legen's,  of  a  Saturday  afternoon?  Well, 
so  do  I  when  I  get  a5  evenin'  off, — which 
isn't  often,  as  you  well  know,  Miss.  And 
now  your  dinner's  ready.  So  eat  it,  with- 
out any  more  clackinV 

Gwendolyn  climbed  upon  the  plump 
rounding  seat  of  a  white-and-gold  chair. 

Jane  settled  down  nearby,  choosing  an 
upholstered  arm-chair — spacious,  com- 
fort-giving. She  lolled  in  it,  at  ease  but 
watchful. 

"You  can't  think  how  that  old  butler 
spies  on  me,"  said  Thomas,  addressing  her. 
"He  seen  the  tray  when  I  put  it  on  the 

24 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

dumb-waiter.  And,  'Miss  Royle  is  havin' 
her  lunch  out/  he  says.  Then  would  you 
believe  it,  he  took  more'n  half  my  dishes 
away!" 

Jane  giggled.  "Potter's  a  sharp  one/5 
she  declared.  "But,  oh,  you  should' ve 
been  behind  a  door  just  now  when  you- 
know-who  and  I  had  a  little  under- 
standing 

"Eh?"  he  inquired,  working  his  black 
brows  excitedly.  "How  was  that?" 

Gwendolyn  went  calmly  on  with  her 
mutton-broth.  She  already  knew  each 
detail  of  the  forth-coming  recital. 

"Well,"  began  Jane,  "she  played  her 
usual  trick  of  startin'  off  without  so  much 
as  a  word  to  me,  and  I  just  up  and  give  her 
a  tongue-lashin'." 

Gwendolyn's  spoon  paused  half  way  to 
her  expectant  pink  mouth.  She  stared  at 
Jane.  "Oh,  I  didn't  see  that,"  she  ex- 

25 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

claimed  regretfully.  "Jane,  what  is  a 
tongue-lashing  ?" 

Jane  sat  up.  "A  tongue-lashing"  said 
she,  "is  what  you  need,  young  lady.  Look 
at  the  way  you've  spilled  your  soup! 
Take  it,  Thomas,  and  serve  the  rest  of  the 
dinner.  I  ain't  goin'  to  allow  you  to  be 

at  the  table  all  day,  Miss There, 

Thomas!  That'll  be  all  the  minced 
chicken  she  can  have." 

"But  I  took  just  one  little  spoonful," 
protested  Gwendolyn,  earnestly.  "I 
wanted  more,  but  Thomas  held  it  'way 
up,  and — " 

"Do  you  want  to  be  sick?"  demanded 
Jane.  "And  have  a  doctor  come?" 

Gwendolyn  raised  frightened  eyes.  A 
doctor  had  been  called  once  in  the  dim 
past,  when  she  was  a  baby,  racked  by  colic 
and  budding  teeth.  She  did  not  remem- 
ber him.  But  since  the  era  of  short 

26 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

clothes  she  had  been  mercifully  spared  his 
visits.     "N-n-no!"  she  faltered. 

'"Well,  you  look  out  or  I'll  git  one  on 
the  'phone.  And  you'll  be  sorry  the  rest 
of  your  life.  .  .  .  Take  the  chicken  away, 
Thomas.  'Out  of  sight  is' — you  know  the 
sayin'.  (It's  a  pity  there  ain't  some  way 
to  keep  it  hot.)" 

"A  bit  of  cold  fowl  don't  go  so  bad," 
said  Thomas,  reassuringly.  And  to 
Gwendolyn,  "Here's  more  of  the  pota- 
toes souffles,  Miss  Gwendolyn, — very 
tasty  and  fillin'." 

Gwendolyn  put  up  a  hand  and  pushed 
the  proffered  dish  aside. 

"Now,  no  temper,"  warned  Jane,  ris- 
ing. 'Too  much  meat  ain't  good  for 
children.  Your  mamma  herself  would 
say  that.  Come !  See  that  nice  potatoes 
and  cream  gravy  on  your  plate.  And 
there  you  set  cryin' !" 

27 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Thomas  had  an  idea.  "Shall  I  fetch 
the  cake?"  he  asked  in  a  loud  whisper. 

Jane  nodded. 

He  disappeared — to  reappear  at  once 
with  a  round  frosted  cake  that  had  a  bor- 
der of  pink  icing  upon  its  glazed  white 
top.  And  set  within  the  circle  of  the  bor- 
der were  seven  pink  candles,  all  alight. 

"Oh,  look!  Look!"  cried  Jane,  ex- 
citedly, pulling  Gwendolyn's  hand  away 
from  her  eyes.  "Isn't  it  a  beautiful  cake ! 
You  shall  have  a  bi-i-ig  piece." 

Those  seven  small  candles  dispelled  the 
gloom.  With  tears  on  her  cheeks,  but  all 
eager  and  smiling  once  more,  Gwendolyn 
blew  the  candles  out.  And  as  she  bent 
forward  to  puff  at  each  tiny  one,  Jane 
held  her  bright  hair  back,  for  fear  that  a 
strand  might  get  too  near  a  flame. 

"Oh,  Jane,"  cried  Gwendolyn,  "when 

28 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

I  blow  like  that,  where  do  all  the  little 
lights  go?" 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  question?" 
exclaimed  Jane,  appealing  to  Thomas. 

He  was  cutting  away  at  the  cake.  "Of 
course,  Miss,  you'd  like  me  to  have  a  bite 
of  this/'  he  said.  "You  know  it  was  me 
that  reminded  Cook  about  bakin' — " 

"Perhaps  all  the  little  lights  go  up  un- 
der the  big  lamp-shade,"  went  on  Gwen- 
dolyn, too  absorbed  to  listen  to  Thomas. 
"And  make  a  big  light."  She  started  to 
get  down  from  her  chair  to  investigate. 

"Now  look  here,"  said  Jane  irritably, 
"you'll  just  finish  your  dinner  before  you 
leave  the  table.  Here's  your  cake.  Eat 
it!" 

Gwendolyn  ate  her  slice  daintily,  using 
a  fork. 

Jane  also  ate  a  slice- — holding  it  in  her 
29 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

fingers.  "There's  ways  of  managin'  a 
fairly  jolly  afternoon/'  she  said  from  the 
depths  of  the  arm-chair. 

"You're  speakin'  of — er — ?"  asked 
Thomas,  picking  up  cake  crumbs  with  a 
damp  finger-tip. 

"Uh-huh." 

"A  certain  party  would  have  to  go 
along,"  he  reminded. 

"O/  course.    But  a  ride's  better'n  noth- 


in'." 


"Shall  I  telephone  for—?'  Thomas 
brought  a  finger-bowl. 

Gwendolyn  stood  up.  A  ride  meant 
the  limousine,  with  its  screening  top  and 
little  windows.  The  limousine  meant  a 
long,  tiresome  run  at  good  speed  through 
streets  that  she  longed  to  travel  afoot, 
slowly,  with  a  stop  here  and  a  stop  there, 
and  a  poke  into  things  in  general. 

Her  crimson  cheeks  spoke  rebellion. 
30 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"I  want  a  walk  this  afternoon,"  she  de- 
clared emphatically. 

"Use  your  finger-bowl,"  said  Jane. 
"Can't  you  never  remember  your  man- 
ners?" 

"I'm  seven  today,"  Gwendolyn  went 
on,  the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  the  small 
basin  of  silver  while  her  face  was  turned 
to  Jane.  "I'm  seven  and — and  I'm 
grown-up." 

"And  you're  splashin'  water  on  the 
table-cloth.  Look  at  you!" 

"So,"  went  on  Gwendolyn,  "I'm  going 
to  walk.  I  haven't  walked  for  a  whole, 
whole  week." 

''You  can  lean  back  in  the  car,"  began 
Jane  enthusiastically,  "and  pretend 
you're  a  grand  little  Queen!" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  Queen.  I  want  to 
walk." 

"Rich  little  girls  don't  hike  along  the 
31 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

streets  like  common  poor  little  girls/'  in- 
formed Jane. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  rich  little  girl/' — 
voice  shrill  with  determination. 

Jane  went  to  shake  her  frilled  apron 
into  the  gilded  waste-basket  beside  Gwen- 
dolyn's writing-desk.  "You  can  tele- 
phone any  time  now,  Thomas/'  she  said 
calmly. 

Gwendolyn  turned  upon  Thomas. 
"But  I  don't  want  to  be  shut  up  in  the 
car  this  afternoon/'  she  cried.  "And  I 
won't!  I  won't!  I  WON'T!" 

Jane  gave  a  gasp  of  smothered  rage. 
The  reddish  eyes  blazed.  "Do  you  want 
me  to  send  for  a  great  black  bear?"  she 
demanded. 

At  that  Gwendolyn  quailed.    "No-o-o !" 

Jane  shot  a  glance  toward  Thomas.  It 
invited  suggestion. 

"Let  her  take  something  along/'  he 
32 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

said  under  his  breath,  nodding  toward  a 
glass-fronted  case  of  shelves  that  stood 
opposite  Gwendolyn's  bed. 

Each  shelf  of  the  case  was  covered  with 
toys.  Along  one  sat  a  line  of  daintily  clad 
dolls — black-haired  dolls  *  golden-haired 
dolls;  dolls  from  China,  with  slanted  eyes 
and  a  queue;  dolls  from  Japan,  in  gayly 
figured  kimonos;  Dutch  dolls — a  boy  and 
a  girl;  a  French  doll  in  an  exquisite  frock; 
a  Russian;  an  Indian;  a  Spaniard.  A  sec- 
ond shelf  held  a  shiny  red-and-black  peg- 
top,  a  black  wooden  snake  beside  its  lead- 
colored  pipe-like  case;  a  tin  soldier  in  an 
English  uniform — red  coat,  and  pill-box 
cap  held  on  by  a  chin-strap;  a  second  uni- 
formed tin  man  who  turned  somersaults, 
but  in  repose  stood  upon  his  head;  a  black 
dog  on  wheels,  with  great  floppy  ears;  and 
a  half-dozen  downy  ducklings  acquired  at 
Easten 

33 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Much  good  takin5  any  thing' 11  do!" 
grumbled  Jane.  Then,  plucking  crossly 
at  a  muslin  sleeve,  "Well,  what  do  you 
want?  Your'French  doll?  Speak  up!" 

"I  don't  want  anything,55  asserted 
Gwendolyn,  " — long  as  I  can't  have  my 
Puffy  Bear  any  more.55  There  was  a  wide 
vacant  place  beside  the  dog  with  the  large 
ears. 

"The  little  beast  got  shabby,55  explained 
Thomas,  "and  I  was  compelled  to  throw 
him  away  along  with  the  old  linen-hamper. 
Like  as  not  some  poor  little  child  has  him 


now." 


She  considered  the  statement,  gray  eyes 
wistful.  Then,  "I  liked  him,55  she  said 
huskily.  "He  was  old  and  squashy,  and  it 
wouldn't  hurt  him  to  walk  up  the  Drive, 
right  in  the  path  where  the  horses  go.  The 
dirt  is  loose  there,  like  it  was  in  the  road 

34 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

at  Johnnie  Blake's  in  the  country.  I 
could  scuff  it  with  my  shoes/' 

"You  could  scuff  it  and  I  could  wear 
myself  out  cleanin',  I  suppose/'  retorted 
Jane.  "And  like  as  not  run  the  risk  of 
gittin'  some  bad  germs  on  my  hands,  and 
dyin'  of  'em.  From  what  Rosa  says,  it 
was  downright  shameful  the  way  you  mud- 
died your  clothes,  and  tore  'em,  and  messed 
in  the  water  after  nasty  tad-poles  that 
week  you  was  up  country.  /  won't  allow 
you  to  treat  your  beautiful  dresses  like 
that,  or  climb  about,  or  let  the  hot  sun  git 
at  you." 

"I'm  going  to  walk" 

Silence;  but  silence  palpitant  with 
thought.  Then  Jane  threw  up  her  head 
—as  if  seized  with  an  inspiration. 
"You're  going  to  walk?"  said  she.  "All 
right !  All  right !  Walk  if  you  want  to." 

35 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  made  as  if  to  set  out.  "Go  ahead! 
But,  my  dear"  (she  dropped  her  voice  in 
fear)  "you'll  no  more'n  git  to  the  next 
corner  when  somebody' II  steal  you!" 

Gwendolyn  was  silent  for  a  long  mo- 
ment. She  glanced  from  Jane  to  Thomas, 
from  Thomas  to  Jane,  and  crooked  her 
fingers  in  and  out  of  her  twisted  handker- 
chief. 

"But,  Jane,"  she  said  finally,  "the  dogs 
go  out  walking — and — and  nobody  steals 
the  dogs." 

"Hear  the  silly  child!"  cried  Jane. 
"Nobody  steals  the  dogsJ  Why,  if  any- 
body was  to  steal  the  dogs  what  good 
would  it  do  'em?  They're  only  Pome- 
ranians anyhow,  and  Madam  could  go 
straight  out  and  buy  more.  Besides,  like 
as  not  Pomeranians  won't  be  stylish  next 
year,  and  so  Madam  wouldn't  care  two 
snaps.  She'd  go  buy  the  latest  thing  in 

36 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

poodles,  or  else  a  fine  collie,  or  a  spaniel 
or  a  Spitz/' 

"But  other  little  girls  walk  all  the  time/5 
insisted  Gwendolyn,  "and  nobody  steals 
them:9 

Jane  crossed  her  knees,  pursed  her 
mouth  and  folded  her  arms.  "Well, 
Thomas/'  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "I 
guess  after  all  that  I'll  have  to  tell  her." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  suppose  so/'  agreed  Thomas. 
His  tone  was  funereal. 

Gwendolyn  looked  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"I  haven't  wanted  to/'  continued  Jane, 
dolefully.  "Ton  know  that.  But  now 
she  forces  me  to  do  it.  Though  I'm  as 
sorry  as  sorry  can  be." 

Thomas  had  just  taken  his  portion  of 
cake  in  one  great  mouthful.  "Fo'm  my," 
he  chimed  in. 


37 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  looked  concerned.  "But 
I'm  seven/'  she  reiterated. 

"Seven?"  said  Jane.  "What  has  that 
got  to  do  with  it?  Age  don't  matter." 

Gwendolyn  did  not  flinch. 

"You  said  nobody  steals  other  little 
girls,"  went  on  Jane.  "It  ain't  true. 
Poor  little  girls  and  boys,  nobody  steals. 
You  can  see  'em  runnin'  around  loose 
everywheres.  But  it's  different  when  a 
little  girl's  papa  is  made  of  money." 

"So  much  money,"  added  Thomas, 
"that  it  fairly  makes  me  palm  itch." 
Whereat  he  fell  to  rubbing  one  open  hand 
against  a  corner  of  the  piano. 

Gwendolyn  reflected  a  moment.  Then, 
"But  my  fath-er  isn't  made  of  money,"- 
she  lingered  a  little,  tenderly,  over  the 
word  father,  pronouncing  it  as  if  it  were 
two  words.  "I  know  he  isn't.  When  I 
was  at  Johnnie  Blake's  cottage,  we  went 

38 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

fishing,  and  fath-er  rolled  up  his  sleeves. 
And  his  arms  were  strong;  and  red,  like 
Jane's." 

Thomas  sniggered. 

But  Jane  gestured  impatiently.  Then, 
making  scared  eyes,  "What  has  that  got 
to  do"  she  demanded,  "with  the  wicked 
men  that  keep  watch  of  this  house?" 

Gwendolyn  swallowed.  "What  wicked 
men?"  she  questioned  apprehensively. 

"Ah-ha!"  triumphed  Jane.  "I  thought 
that'd  catch  you!  Now  just  let  me  ask 
you  another  question:  Why  are  there 
bars  on  the  basement  windows?" 

Gwendolyn's  lips  parted  to  reply.  But 
no  words  came. 

"You  don't  know,"  said  Jane.  "But 
I'll  tell  you  something:  There  ain't  no 
bars  on  the  windows  where  poor  little  girls 
live.  For  the  simple  reason  that  nobody 
wants  to  steal  them" 

39 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  considered  the  statement, 
her  fingers  still  busy  knotting  and  unknot- 
ting. 

"I  tell  you/'  Jane  launched  forth  again, 
"that  if  you  run  about  on  the  street,  like 
poor  children  do,  you'll  be  grabbed  up  by 
a  band  of  kidnapers." 

"Are — are  kidnapers  worse  than  doc- 
tors?" asked  Gwendolyn. 

"Worse  than  doctors!"  scoffed  Thomas. 
"Heaps  worse." 

"Worse  than — than  bears?"  (The  last 
trace  of  that  rebellious  red  was  gone.) 

Up  and  down  went  Jane's  head  sol- 
emnly. "Kidnapers  carry  knives — big 
curved  knives." 

Now  Gwendolyn  recalled  a  certain  ter- 
ror-inspiring man  with  a  long  belted  coat 
and  a  cap  with  a  shiny  visor.  It  was  not  his 
height  that  made  her  fear  him,  for  her 
father  was  fully  as  tall ;  and  it  was  not  his 

40 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

brass-buttoned  coat,  or  the  dark,  piercing 
eyes  under  the  visor.  She  feared  him  be- 
cause Jane  had  often  threatened  her  with 
his  coming;  and,  secondly,  because  he 
wore,  hanging  from  his  belt,  a  cudgel — 
long  and  heavy  and  thick.  How  that 
cudgel  glistened  in  the  sunlight  as  it 
swung  to  and  fro  by  a  thong ! 

"Worse  than  a — a  p'liceman?"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"Policeman?     Tes.i" 

"Than  the  p'liceman  that's — that's  al- 
ways hanging  around  here?" 

Now  Jane  giggled,  and  blushed  as  red 
as  her  hair.  "Hush!"  she  chided. 

Thomas  poked  a  teasing  finger  at  her. 
"Haw!  Haw!"  he  laughed.  "There's 
other  people  that's  noticed  a  policeman 
hangin'  round.  He's  a  dandy,  he  is! — 
not.  He  let  that  old  hand  organ  man  give 
him  a  black  eye." 

41 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Pooh!"  retorted  Jane.  "You  know 
how  much  I  care  about  that  policeman! 
It's  only  that  I  like  to  have  him  handy  for 
just  such  times  as  this." 

But  Gwendolyn  was  dwelling  on  the 
newly  discovered  scourge  of  moneyed 
children.  "What  would  the  kidnapers 
do?"  she  inquired. 

"The  kidnapers,"  promptly  answered 
Jane,  "would  take  you  and  shut  you  up  in 
a  nasty  cellar,  where  there  was  rats  and 
mice  and  things  and — " 

Gwendolyn's  mouth  began  to  quiver. 

Hastily  Jane  put  out  a  hand.  "But 
we'll  look  sharp  that  nothin'  of  the  kind 
happens,"  she  declared  stoutly;  "for  who 
can  git  you  when  you're  in  the  car — es- 
pecially when  Thomas  is  along  to  watch 
out.  So" — with  a  great  show  of  enthusi- 
asm— "we'll  go  out,  oh!  for  a  grand  ride." 
She  rose.  "And  maybe  when  we  git  into 

42 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  country  a  ways,  we'll  invite  Thomas 
to  take  the  inside  seat  opposite/'  (another 
wink)  "and  he'll  tell  you  about  soldierin' 
in  India,  and  camps,  and  marches,  and 
shootin'  elephants." 

"Aren't  there  kidnapers  in  the  country, 
too?"  asked  Gwendolyn.  "I — I  guess  I'd 
rather  stay  home." 

"You  won't  see  'em  in  the  country  this 
time  of  day,"  explained  Jane.  "They're 
all  in  town,  huntin'  rich  little  children. 
So  on  with  the  sweet  new  hat  and  a  pretty 
coat!"  She  opened  the  door  of  the  ward- 
robe. 

Gwendolyn  did  not  move.  But  as  she 
watched  Jane  the  gray  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  which  overflowed  and  trickled 
slowly  down  her  cheeks.  "If — if  Thomas 
walked  along  with  us,"  she  began,  "could 
—could  anybody  steal  me  then?" 

Jane  was  taking  out  coat,  hat  and 
43 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

gloves.  "What  would  kidnapers  care 
about  ^homas?"  she  demanded  con- 
temptuously. "Sure,  they'd  steal  you, 
and  then  they'd  say  to  your  father,  'Give 
me  a  million  dollars  in  cash  if  you  want 
Miss  Gwendolyn  back/  And  if  your 
father  didn't  give  the  money  on  the  spot, 
you'd  be  sold  to  gipsies,  or — or  China- 


But Gwendolyn  persisted.  "Thomas 
has  killed  el'phunts,"  she  reminded.  "Are 
— are  kidnapers  worse  than  el'phunts?" 
She  drew  on  her  gloves. 

Jane  sat  down  and  held  out  the  coat. 
It  was  of  velvet.  "Now  be  still!"  she 
commanded  roughly.  "You'll  go  in  the 
machine  if  you  go  at  all.  Do  you  hear 
that?" — giving  Gwendolyn  a  half-turn- 
about that  nearly  upset  her.  "Do  you 
think  I'm  goin'  to  trapse  over  the  hard 

44 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

pavements  on  my  poor,  tired  feet  just  be- 
cause you  take  your  notions?" 

Gwendolyn  began  to  cry — softly.  "Oh, 
I — I  thought  I  wouldn't  ever  have  to  ride 
again  wh-when  I  was  seven/'  she  faltered, 
putting  one  white-gloved  hand  to  her 
eyes. 

"Stop  that!"  commanded  Jane,  again. 
"Dirtyin'  your  gloves,  you  wasteful  little 
thing!" 

Now  the  big  sobs  came.  Down  went 
the  yellow  head. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  said  Thomas.  "Little 
ladies  never  cry." 

"Walk!  walk!  walk!"  scolded  Jane, 
kneeling,  and  preparing  to  adjust  the  new 
hat. 

The  hat  had  wide  ribbons  that  tied 
under  the  chin — new,  stiff  ribbons. 

"Johnnie  Bu-Blake  didn't  fasten  his  hat 
45 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

on  like  this/'  wept  Gwendolyn.  She 
moved  her  chin  from  side  to  side.  "He 
just  had  a — a  sh-shoe-string." 

Jane  had  finished.  "Johnnie  Blake! 
Johnnie  Blake!  Johnnie  Blake!"  she 
mocked.  She  gave  Gwendolyn  a  little 
push  toward  the  front  window.  "Now, 
no  more  of  your  nonsense.  Go  and  be 
quiet  for  a  few  minutes.  And  keep  a'  eye 
out,  will  you,  to  see  that  there's  nobody 
layin'  in  wait  for  us  out  in  front?" 

Gwendolyn  went  forward  to  the  win- 
dow-seat and  climbed  up  among  its  cush- 
ions. From  there  she  looked  down  upon 
the  Drive  with  its  sloping,  evenly-cut 
grass,  its  smooth,  tawny  road  and  soft 
brown  bridle-path,  and  its  curving  walk, 
stone-walled  on  the  outer  side.  Beyond 
park  and  road  and  walk  were  tree-tops, 
bush-high  above  the  wall.  And  beyond 
these  was  the  broad,  slow-flowing  river, 

46 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  boats  going  to  and  fro  upon  its 
shimmering  surface.  The  farther  side  of 
the  river  was  walled  like  the  walk,  only 
the  wall  was  a  cliff,  sheer  and  dark  and 
timber-edged.  And  through  this  timber 
could  be  seen  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of 
distant  houses. 

But  Gwendolyn  saw  nothing  of  the 
beauty  of  the  view.  She  did  not  even 
glance  down  to  where,  on  its  pedestal, 
stood  the  great  bronze  war-horse,  its  mane 
and  tail  flying,  its  neck  arched,  its  lips 
curved  to  neigh.  Astride  the  horse  was 
her  friend,  the  General,  soldierly,  valor- 
ous, his  hat  doffed — as  if  in  silent  greet- 
ing to  the  double  procession  of  vehicles 
and  pedestrians  that  was  passing  before 
him.  Brave  he  might  be,  but  what  help 
was  the  General  now? 

When  Jane  was  ready  for  the  drive, 
Gwendolyn  took  a  firm  hold  of  one  thick 

47 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

thumb.  And,  with  Thomas  following, 
they  were  soon  in  the  entrance  hall. 
There,  waiting  as  usual,  was  Potter,  the 
butler.  He  smiled  at  Gwendolyn. 

But  Gwendolyn  did  not  smile  in  return. 
As  the  cage  had  sunk  swiftly  down  the 
long  shaft,  her  heart  had  sunk,  too.  And 
now  she  thought  how  old  Potter  was; 
how  thin  and  stooped.  With  kidnapers 
about,  was  he  a  fit  guardian  for  the  front 
door4?  As  Potter  swung  wide  the  heavy 
grille  of  wrought  iron,  with  its  silk-hung 
back  of  plate-glass,  Gwendolyn  pulled 
hard  at  Jane's  hand,  and  went  down  the 
granite  steps  and  across  the  sidewalk  as 
quickly  as  possible,  with  a  timid  glance  to 
right  and  left.  For,  even  as  she  entered 
the  car,  might  not  that  band  of  knife-men 
suddenly  catch  sight  of  her,  and,  rushing 
over  walk  and  bridle-path  and  roadway, 
seize  her  and  carry  her  off? 

48 


"GWENDOLYN  PULLED  HARD  AT  JANE'S  HAND' 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  sank,  trembling,  upon  the  seat  of 
the  limousine. 

Jane  followed  her.  Then  Thomas 
closed  the  windowed  door  of  the  motor 
and  took  his  place  beside  the  chauffeur. 

Gwendolyn  leaned  forward  for  a  swift 
glance  at  the  lower  windows,  barred 
against  intruders.  The  great  house  was 
of  stone.  On  side  and  rear  it  stood  flat 
against  other  houses.  But  it  was  built  on 
a  corner;  and  along  its  front  and  outer 
side,  the  tops  of  the  basement  windows 
were  set  a  foot  or  more  above  the  level  of 
the  sidewalk.  To  Gwendolyn  those  win- 
dows were  huge  eyes,  peering  out  at  her 
from  under  heavy  lashes  of  iron. 

The  automobile  started.  Jane  ar- 
ranged her  skirts  and  leaned  back  luxuri- 
ously, her  big  hands  folded  on  her  lap. 

"My!  but  ain't  this  grand!"  she  ex- 
claime^.  Then  to  Gwendolyn:  'You 

49 


The  Poor  Little  RicH  Girl 

don't  mind,  do  you,  dearie,  if  Jane  has  a 
taste  of  gum  as  we  go  along?" 

Gwendolyn  did  not  reply.  She  had  not 
heard.  She  was  leaning  toward  the  little 
window  on  her  side  of  the  limousine.  In 
front  of  Jane  was  the  chauffeur,  wide- 
backed  and  skillful,  and  crouched  vigi- 
lantly over  his  wheel.  But  in  front  of  her 
was  Thomas,  sitting  in  the  proudly  erect, 
stiff  position  peculiar  to  him  whenever  he 
fared  abroad.  He  looked  neither  to  right 
nor  left.  He  seemed  indifferent  that  dan- 
ger lurked  for  her  along  the  Drive. 

But  she — !  As  the  limousine  joined 
others,  all  speeding  forward  merrily,  her 
pale  little  face  was  pressed  against  the 
shield-shaped  pane  of  glass,  her  fright- 
ened eyes  roved  continually,  searching 
the  moving  crowds. 


CHAPTER  II 

nursery  was  on  the  top-most 
floor  of  the  great  stone  house — 
this  for  sunshine  and  air.  But  the  sun- 
shine was  gone  when  Gwendolyn  returned 
from  her  drive,  and  a  half-dozen  silk- 
shaded  lights  threw  a  soft  glow  over  the 
room.  To  shut  out  the  chill  of  the  spring 
evening  the  windows  were  down.  Across 
them  were  drawn  the  heavy  hangings  of 
rose  brocade. 

There  was  a  lamp  on  the  larger  of  the 
nursery  tables,  a  tall  lamp,  almost  flower- 
like  with  its  petal-shaped  ruffles  of  lace 
and  chiffon.  It  made  conspicuous  two 
packages  that  flanked  it — one  small  and 
square;  the  other  large,  and  as  round  as  a 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

hat-box.  Each  was  wrapped  in  white 
paper  and  tied  with  red  string. 

"Birthday  presents!"  cried  Jane,  the 
moment  she  spied  them;  and  sprang  for- 
ward. "Oh,  I  wonder  what  they  are! 
What  do  you  guess,  Gwendolyn?" 

Gwendolyn  followed  slowly,  blinking 
against  the  light.  "I  can't  guess/'  she 
said  without  enthusiasm.  The  glass- 
fronted  case  was  full  of  toys,  none  of 
which  she  particularly  cherished.  (In- 
deed, most  of  them  were  carefully 
wrapped  from  sight.)  New  ones  would 
merely  form  an  addition. 

"Well,  what  would  you  like?"  queried 
Jane,  catching  up  the  small  package  and 
shaking  it. 

Gwendolyn  suddenly  looked  very  ear- 
nest. 

"Most  in  the  whole  world?"  she  asked. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Yes,  what?"  Jane  dropped  the  small 
package  and  shook  the  large  one. 

"In  the  whole,  whole  big  world?'3  went 
on  Gwendolyn — to  herself  rather  than  to 
her  nurse.  She  was  not  looking  at  the 
table,  but  toward  a  curtained  window,  and 
the  gray  eyes  had  a  tender  faraway  expres- 
sion. There  was  a  faint  conventional 
pattern  in  the  brocade  of  the  heavy  hang- 
ings. It  suggested  trees  with  graceful 
down-growing  boughs.  She  clasped  her 
hands.  "I  want  to  live  out  in  the  woods," 
she  said,  "at  Johnnie  Blake's  cottage  by 
the  stream  that's  got  fish  in  it." 

Jane  set  the  big  package  down  with  a 
thump.  "That's  awful  selfish  of  you," 
she  declared  warmly.  "For  you  know 
right  well  that  Thomas  and  /  wouldn't 
like  to  leave  the  city  and  live  away  out  in 
the  country.  Would  we,  Thomas?"- — 
for  he  had  just  entered. 

53 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Cer-tain-ly  not"  said  Thomas. 

"And  it'd  give  poor  Miss  Royle  the  neu- 
ralgia." (Jane  and  Miss  Royle  might 
contend  with  each  other;  they  made  com- 
mon cause  against  her.} 

"But  none  of  you'd  have  to/'  assured 
Gwendolyn.  "When  I  was  at  Johnnie 
Blake's  that  once,  just  Potter  went,  and 
Rosa,  and  Cook.  And  Rosa  buttoned  my 
dresses  and  gave  me  my  bath,  and— 

"So  Rosa'll  do  just  as  well  as  me,"  in- 
terrupted Jane,  jealously. 

" — And  Potter  passed  the  dishes  at 
table,"  resumed  Gwendolyn,  ignoring  the 
remark;  "and  he  never  hurried  the  best- 
tasting  ones." 

"Hear  that  will  you,  Thomas!"  cried 
Jane.  "Mr.  Potter  never  hurried  the 
best-tastin'  ones!" 

Thomas  gave  her  a  significant  stare. 
54 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"I  tell  you,  a  certain  person  is  growin' 
keen/'  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Jane  took  Gwendolyn  by  the  arm. 
'Tut  all  that  Johnnie  Blake  nonsense  out 
of  your  head/'  she  commanded.  "Folks 
that  live  in  the  woods  don't  know  nothin'. 
They're  silly  and  pokey." 

Gwendolyn  shook  her  head  with  delib- 
eration. "Johnny  Blake  wasn't  pokey," 
she  denied.  "He  had  a  willow  fishpole, 
and  a  string  tied  to  it.  And  he  caught 
shiny  fishes  on  the  end  of  the  string." 

"Johnnie  Blake!"  sniffed  Jane.  "Oh, 
I  know  all  about  him.  Rosa  told  me. 
He's  a  common,  poor  little  boy.  And" — 
severely — "I,  for  one^  can't  see  why  you 
was  ever  allowed  to  play  with  him !  .  .  . 

"Now,  darlin'," — softening — "here  we 
stand  fussin',  and  you  ain't  even  guessed 
what  your  presents  are.  Guess  some- 

55 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

thing  that's  real  fine:  something  you'd 
like  in  the  city,  pettie."  She  began  to 
unwrap  the  larger  of  the  packages. 

"Oh,"  said  Gwendolyn.  "What  I'd 
like  in  the  city.  Well," — suddenly  be- 
tween her  brows  there  came  a  curious, 
strained  little  wrinkle — €Td  like — " 

The  white  paper  fell  away.  A  large, 
round  box  was  disclosed.  To  it  was  tied 
a  $mall  card. 

''This  is  from  your  papa!"  cried  Jane. 
"Oh,  let's  see  what  it  is!" 

The  wrinkle  smoothed.  A  smile  broke, 
—  4ike  sudden  sunlight  after  clouds  and 
shadow.  Then  there  poured  forth  all 
that  had  filled  her  heart  during  the  past 
months : 

"I'd  like  to  eat  at  the  grown-up  table 
with  my  fath-er  and  my  moth-er,"  she  de- 
clared; "and  I  don't  want  to  have  a  nurse 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

any  more  like  a  baby !  and  I  want  to  go  to 
day-school." 

Jane  gasped,  and  her  big  hands  fell 
from  the  round  box.  Thomas  stared,  and 
reddened  even  to  his  ears,  which  were 
large  and  over-prominent.  To  both,  the 
project  cherished  so  long  and  constantly 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  bombshell. 

"Oh-ho!"  said  Jane,  recovering  herself 
after  a  moment.  "So  me  and  Thomas  are 
to  be  thrown  out  of  our  jobs,  are  we?" 

Gwendolyn  looked  mild  surprise.  "But 
you  don't  like  to  be  here/'  she  reminded. 
"And  you  and  Thomas  wouldn't  have  to 
work  any  more;  you  could  just  play  all 
the  time."  She  smiled  up  at  them  encour- 
agingly. 

Thomas  eyed  Jane.  "If  we  ain't  care- 
ful/' he  warned  in  a  low  voice,  "and  let  a 
certain  party  talk  too  much  at  headquar- 
ters—" 

57 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  other  nodded,  comprehending. 
"I'll  look  sharp,"  she  promised.  "Royle 
will,  too/'  Whereupon,  with  a  forced 
change  to  gayety,  and  a  toss  of  the  white 
card  aside,  she  lifted  the  cover  of  the  box 
and  peeked  in. 

It  was  a  merry-go-round,  canopied  in 
gay  stripes,  and  built  to  accommodate  a 
party  of  twelve  dolls.  There  were  six 
deep  seats,  each  lined  with  ruby  plush,  for 
as  many  lady  dolls:  There  were  six 
prancing  Arab  steeds — bay  and  chestnut 
and  dappled  gray — for  an  equal  number 
of  men.  A  small  handle  turned  to  wind 
up  the  merry-go-round.  Whereupon  the 
seats  revolved  gayly,  the  Arabs  curvetted; 
and  from  the  base  of  the  stout  canopy  pole 
there  sounded  a  merry  tune. 

"Oh,  darlin5,  what  a  grand  thing!" 
cried  Jane,  lifting  Gwendolyn  to  stand 
on  the  rounding  seat  of  a  white-and-gold 

58 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

chair  (a  position  at  other  times  strictly 
forbidden) .  "And  what  a  pile  of  money 
it  must've  cost!  Why,  it's  as  natural  as 
the  big  one  in  the  Park!" 

The  music  and  the  horses  appealed. 
Other  considerations  moved  temporarily 
into  the  background  as  Gwendolyn 
watched  and  listened. 

Thomas  broke  the  string  of  the  smaller 
package.  "This  is  the  Madam's  pres- 
ent/5 he  declared.  "And  I'll  warrant  it's 
a  beauty !" 

It  proved  a  surprise.  All  paper  shorn 
away,  there  stood  revealed  a  green  cab- 
bage, topped  by  something  fluffy  and 
hairy  and  snow-white.  This  was  a  rab- 
bit's head.  And  when  Thomas  had 
turned  a  key  in  the  base  of  the  cabbage, 
the  rabbit  gave  a  sudden  hop,  lifted  a  pair 
of  long  ears,  munched  at  a  bit  of  cabbage- 
leaf,  turned  his  pink  nose,  now  to  the 

59 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

right,  now  to  the  left,  and  rolled  two 
amber  eyes. 

"And  look!  Look!"  shouted  Jane. 
"The  eyes  light  up !"  For  each  was  glow- 
ing as  yellowly  as  the  tiny  electric  bulbs 
on  either  side  of  Gwendolyn's  dressing- 
table. 

"Now  what  more  could  a  little  lady 
want!"  exclaimed  Thomas.  "It's  as  won- 
derful, /  say,  as  a  wax  figger." 

The  rabbit,  with  a  sharp  click  of  fare- 
well, popped  back  into  the  cabbage. 
Gwendolyn  got  down  from  the  chair. 

"It  is  nice,"  she  conceded.  "And  I'm 
going  to  ask  fath-er  and  moth-er  to  come 
up  and  see  it." 

Neither  Thomas  nor  Jane  answered. 
But  again  he  eyed  the  nurse,  this  time 
flashing  a  silent  warning.  After  which 
she  began  to  exclaim  excitedly  over  the 
rabbit,  while  he  wound  up  the  merry-go- 

60 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

round.  Then  the  ruby  seats  and  the 
Arabs  careened  in  a  circle,  the  music 
played,  the  rabbit  chewed  and  wriggled 
and  rolled  his  luminous  eyes. 

An  interruption  came  in  the  shape  of  a 
ring  at  the  telephone,  which  stood  on  the 
small  table  at  the  head  of  Gwendolyn's 
bed.  Jane  answered  the  summons,  and 
received  the  message, — a  brief  one.  It 
worked,  however,  a  noticeable  change. 
For  when  Jane  turned  round  her  face  was 
sullen. 

Gwendolyn  remarked  the  scowls.  Also 
the  fact  that  the  moment  Jane  made 
Thomas  her  confidant-— in  an  undertone 
—he  showed  plain  signs  of  being  annoyed. 
Gwendolyn  saw  the  merry-go-round — 
cabbage  and  all — disappear  into  the  large, 
round  box  without  a  trace  of  regret.  So 
much  ill-feeling  on  the  part  of  nurse  and 
man-servant  undoubtedly  meant  that 

61 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

something  of  a  decidedly  pleasant  nature 
was  about  to  happen  to  herself. 

It  was  a  usual — almost  a  daily — occur- 
rence for  her  to  visit  the  region  of  the 
grown-ups  at  the  dinner-hour.  On  such 
occasions  she  saw  one,  though  more  often 
both,  of  her  parents — as  well  as  a  varying 
number  of  guests.  And  the  privilege  was 
one  held  dear. 

She  coveted  a  dearer.  And  her  eyes 
roved  to  the  larger  of  her  two  tables, 
where  stood  the  tall  lamp.  There  she  ate 
all  her  meals,  in  the  condescending  com- 
pany of  Miss  Royle.  What  if  the  tele- 
phone message  meant  that  henceforth  she 
was  to  eat  downstairs? 

Standing  on  one  foot  she  waited  de- 
velopments, and  concealed  her  eagerness 
by  snapping  her  underlip  against  her 
teeth  with  one  busy  forefinger. 

Her  spirits  fell  when  Thomas  appeared 

62 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  the  supper-tray.  And  she  ate  with 
no  appetite — for  all  that  she  was  eating 
alone — alone,  that  is,  except  for  Thomas, 
who  preserved  a  complete  and  stony 
silence.  Miss  Royle  had  not  returned. 
Jane  had  disappeared  toward  her  room, 
grumbling  about  never  having  a  single 
evening  to  call  her  own. 

But  at  seven  cheer  returned  with  the 
realization  that  Jane  was  not  getting 
ready  the  white-and-gold  bed.  Still  in  a 
very  bad  humor,  and  touched  up  smartly 
by  a  fresh  cap  and  a  dainty  apron,  the 
nurse  put  Gwendolyn  into  a  rosebud- 
bordered  mull  frock  and  tied  a  white- 
satin  bow  atop  her  yellow  hair. 

"Where  am  I  going,  Jane?"  asked 
Gwendolyn.  (She  felt  certain  that  this 
was  one  of  the  nights  when  she  was  in- 
vited downstairs:  She  hoped — with  a 
throb  in  her  throat  that  was  like  the  beat 

63 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

of  a  heart — that  the  supper  just  past  was 
only  afternoon  tea,  and  that  there  was 
waiting  for  her  at  the  grown-up  table — 
in  view  of  her  newly  acquired  year  and 
dignity— an  empty  chair.} 

''You'll  see  soon  enough/'  answered 
Jane,  shortly. 

Next,  a  new  thought!  Her  father  and 
mother  had  not  seen  her  for  two  whole 
days — not  since  she  was  six.  "Wonder 
if  I  show  I'm  not  taller/'  she  mused  under 
her  breath. 

At  precisely  fifteen  minutes  to  eight 
Jane  took  her  by  the  hand.  And  she  went 
down  and  down  in  the  bronze  cage,  past 
the  floor  where  were  the  guest  chambers, 
past  the  library  floor,  which  was  where  her 
mother  and  father  lived,  to  the  second 
floor  of  the  great  house.  Here  was  the 
music-room,  spacious  and  splendid,  and 
the  dining-room.  The  doors  of  this  latter 

64 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

.room  were  double.  Before  them  the  two 
halted. 

Not  only  the  pause  at  this  entrance  be- 
trayed whereto  they  were  bound,  but  also 
Jane's  manner.  For  the  nurse  was  hold- 
ing herself  erect  and  proper — shoulders 
back,  chin  in,  heels  together.  Gwendolyn 
had  often  noted  that  upon  both  Jane  and 
Thomas  her  parents  had  a  curious  stiffen- 
ing effect. 

The  thought  of  that  empty  chair  now 
forced  itself  uppermost.  The  gray  eyes 
darkened  with  sudden  anxiety. 

"Now,  Gwendolyn/'  whispered  Jane, 
leaning  down,  "put  your  best  foot  for- 
ward." Her  face  had  lost  some  of  its  ac- 
customed color. 

"But,  Jane/'  whispered  Gwendolyn 
back,  "which  is  my  best  foot?" 

Jane  gave  the  small  hand  she  was  hold- 
ing an  impatient  shake.  "Hush  your 

65 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

rubbishy  questions,"  she  commanded. 
"We're  goin'  in!"  She  tapped  one  of  the 
doors  gently. 

Gwendolyn  glanced  down  at  her  dain- 
tily slippered  feet.  With  so  little  time  for 
reflecting,  she  could  not  decide  which  one 
she  should  put  forward.  Both  looked 
equally  well. 

The  next  moment  the  doors  swung  open, 
and  Potter,  white-haired,  grave  and  bent, 
stepped  aside  for  them  to  pass.  They 
crossed  the  threshold. 

The  dining-room  was  wide  and  long 
and  lofty.  Its  wainscot  was  somberly 
stained.  Above  the  wainscot,  the  dull 
tapestried  walls  reached  to  a  ceiling 
richly  panelled.  The  center  of  this  dark 
setting  was  a  long  table,  glittering  with 
china  and  crystal,  bright  with  silver  and 
roses,  and  lighted  by  clusters  of  silk- 
shaded  candles  that  reflected  themselves 

66 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

upon  circular  table  mirrors.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  table  sat  Gwendolyn's  father, 
pale  in  his  black  dress-clothes,  and  hag- 
gard-eyed; at  the  near  end  sat  her  mother, 
pink-cheeked  and  pretty,  with  jewels 
about  her  bare  throat  and  in  her  fair  hair. 
And  between  the  two,  filling  the  high- 
backed  chairs  on  either  side  of  the  table, 
were  strange  men  and  women. 

Gwendolyn  let  go  of  Jane's  hand  and 
went  toward  her  mother.  Thither  had 
gone  her  first  glance;  her  second  had 
swept  the  whole  length  of  the  board  to  her 
father's  face.  And  now,  without  heeding 
any  of  the  others,  her  look  circled  swiftly 
from  chair  to  chair — searching. 

Not  one  was  empty ! 

The  gray  eyes  blurred.  Yet  she  tried 
to  smile.  Close  to  that  dear  presence,  so 
delicately  perfumed  (with  a  haunting 

perfume   that   was   a   very  part   of  her 

67 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

mother's  charm  and  beauty)  she  halted; 
and  curtsied — precisely  as  Monsieur  Tel- 
legen  had  taught  her.  And  when  the 
white-satin  bow  bobbed  above  the  level 
of  the  table  once  more,  she  raised  her  face 
for  a  kiss. 

A  murmur  went  up  and  down  the 
double  row  of  chairs. 

Gwendolyn's  mother  smiled  radiantly. 
Her  glance  over  the  table  was  proud. 
"This  is  my  little  daughter's  seventh 
birthday  anniversary/'  she  proclaimed. 

To  Gwendolyn  the  announcement  was 
unexpected.  But  she  was  quick.  Very 
cautiously  she  lifted  herself  on  her  toes — 
just  a  little. 

Another  buzz  of  comment  circled  the 
board,  "tfoo  sweet!"  said  one;  and, 
"Cunning!"  and  "Fine  child,  that!" 

"Now,  dear,"  encouraged  her  mother. 

Gwendolyn  would  have  liked  to  stand 

68 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

still  and  listen  to  the  chorus  of  praise. 
But  there  was  something  else  to  do. 

She  turned  a  corner  of  the  table  and 
started  slowly  along  it,  curtseying  at  each 
chair.  As  she  curtsied  she  said  nothing, 
only  bobbed  the  satin  bow  and  put  out  a 
small  hand.  And,  "How  do  you  do, 
darling!"  said  the  ladies,  and  "Ah,  little 
Miss  Gwendolyn !"  said  the  men. 

The  last  man  on  that  side,  however, 
said  something  different.  (He,  she  had 
seen  at  the  dinner-table  often.)  He 
slipped  a  hand  into  a  pocket.  When  it 
came  forth,  it  held  an  oblong  box.  "I 
didn't  forget  that  this  was  your  birth- 
day," he  half-whispered.  "Here!" — as 
he  laid  the  box  upon  Gwendolyn's  pink 
palm — "that's  for  your  sweet  tooth!" 

Everyone  was  watching,  the  ladies 
beaming,  the  men  intent  and  amused. 
But  Gwendolyn  was  unaware  both  of  the 

69 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

silence  and  the  scrutiny.  She  glanced  at 
the  box.  Then  she  looked  up  into  the 
friendly  eyes  of  the  donor. 

"But,"  she  began;  " — but  which  is  my 
sweet  tooth?" 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter,  Gwen- 
dolyn's father  and  mother  joining  in. 
The  man  who  had  presented  the  box 
laughed  heartiest  of  all;  then  rose. 

First  he  bowed  to  her  mother,  who  ac- 
knowledged his  salute  graciously;  next  he 
turned  to  her  father,  whose  pale  face  soft- 
ened ;  last  of  all,  he  addressed  her  : 

"Miss  Gwendolyn,"  said  he,  "a  toast!" 

Gwendolyn  looked  at  those  bread-plates 
which  were  nearest  her.  There  was  no 
toast  in  sight,  only  some  very  nice  dinner- 
rolls.  Moreover,  Potter  and  Thomas  were 
not  starting  for  the  pantry,  but  were 
standing,  the  one  behind  her  mother,  the 

other  behind  her  father,  quietly  listening. 

70 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

And  what  this  friend  of  her  father's  had 
in  his  right  hand  was  not  anything  to  eat, 
but  a  delicate-stemmed  glass  wherein  some 
champagne  was  bubbling — like  amber 
soda-water.  She  was  forced  to  conclude 
that  he  was  unaccountably  stupid — or  only 
queer — or  else  indulging  in  another  of 
those  incomprehensible  grown-up  jokes. 

He  made  a  little  speech — which  she 
could  not  understand,  but  which  elicited 
much  laughter  and  polite  applause; 
though  to  her  it  did  not  seem  brilliant,  or 
even  interesting.  Reseating  himself,  he 
patted  her  head. 

She  put  the  candy  under  her  left  arm, 
said  a  hasty,  half-whispered  Thank-you 
to  him,  went  to  the  next  high-backed 
chair,  curtsied,  bobbed  the  ribbon-bow  and 
put  out  a  hand.  A  pat  on  the  head  was 
dismissal:  There  was  no  need  to  wait 
for  an  answer  to  her  question  concerning 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

her  sweet  tooth.  Experience  had  taught 
her  that  whenever  mirth  greeted  an  in- 
quiry, that  inquiry  was  ignored. 

When  one  whole  side  of  the  table  was 
finished,  and  she  turned  a  second  corner, 
her  father  brushed  her  soft  cheek  with  his 
lips. 

"Did  your  dolls  like  the  merry-go- 
round?"  he  asked  kindly. 

"Yes,  fath-er." 

"Was  there  something  else  my  little 
girl  wanted?" 

Now  she  raised  herself  so  far  on  her  toes 
that  her  lips  were  close  to  his  ear.  For 
there  was  a  lady  on  either  side  of  him. 
And  both  were  plainly  listening. 

"If — if  you'd  come  up  and  make  it  go," 
she  said,  almost  whispering. 

He  nodded  energetically. 

She  went  behind  his  chair.  Thomas 
was  in  wait  there  still.  Down  here  he 

72 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

seemed  to  raise  a  wall  of  aloofness  be- 
tween himself  and  her,  to  wear  a  magnifi- 
cent air,  all  cold  and  haughty,  that  was 
quite  foreign  to  the  nursery.  As  she 
passed  him,  she  dimpled  up  at  him  saucily. 
But  it  failed  to  slack  the  starchy  tenseness 
of  his  visage. 

She  turned  another  corner  and  curtsied 
her  way  along  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table.  On  this  side  were  precisely  as 
many  high-backed  chairs  as  on  the  other. 
And  now,  :cYou  adorable  child!"  cried 
the  ladies,  and  "Haw!  Haw!  Don't  the 
rest  of  us  get  a  smile?"  said  the  men. 

When  all  the  curtseying  was  over,  and 
the  last  corner  was  turned,  she  paused. 
"And  what  is  my  daughter  going  to  say 
about  the  rabbit  in  the  cabbage?"  asked 
her  mother. 

There  was  a  man  seated  on  either  hand. 
Gwendolyn  gave  each  a  quick  glance. 

73 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  Johnnie  Blake's  she  had  been  often 
alone  with  her  father  and  mother  during 
that  one  glorious  week.  But  in  town  her 
little  confidences,  for  the  most  part,  had 
to  be  made  in  just  this  way — under  the  eye 
of  listening  guests  and  servants,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I  like  the  rabbit,"  she  answered,  "but 
my  Puffy  Bear  was  nicer,  only  he  got  old 
and  shabby,  and  so — " 

At  this  point  Jane  took  one  quick  step 
forward. 

"But  if  you'd  come  up  to  the  nursery 
soon/5  Gwendolyn  hastened  to  add. 
"Would  you,  moth-er?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  dear/' 

Gwendolyn  went  up  to  Jane,  who  was 
waiting,  rooted  and  rigid,  close  by.  The 
reddish  eyes  of  the  nurse-maid  fairly 
bulged  with  importance.  Her  lips  were 
sealed  primly.  Her  face  was  so  pale  that 

74 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

every  freckle  she  had  stood  forth  clearly. 
How  strangely — even  direly — the  great 
dining-room  affected  her — who  was  so  at 
ease  in  the  nursery!  No  smile,  no  wink, 
no  remark,  either  lively  or  sensible,  ever 
melted  the  ice  of  her  countenance.  And 
it  was  with  a  look  almost  akin  to  pity  that 
Gwendolyn  held  out  a  hand. 

Jane  took  it  with  a  great  show  of  af- 
fection. Then  once  more  Potter  swung 
wide  the  double  doors. 

Gwendolyn  turned  her  head  for  a  last 
glimpse  of  her  father,  sitting,  grave  and 
haggard,  at  the  far  end  of  the  table ;  at  her 
beautiful,  jeweled  mother;  at  the  double 
line  of  high-backed  chairs  that  showed, 
now  a  man's  stern  black-and-white,  next 
the  gayer  colors  of  a  woman's  dress;  at 
the  clustered  lights;  the  glitter;  the 
roses — 

Then  the  doors  closed,  making  faint 
75 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  din  of  chatter  and  laughter.  And  the 
bronze  cage  carried  Gwendolyn  up  and 
up. 


76 


CHAPTER  III 

'T^HERE  was  a  high  wind  blowing, 
and  the  newly  washed  garments 
hanging  on  the  roofs  of  nearby  buildings 
were  writhing  and  twisting  violently, 
and  tugging  at  the  long  swagging  clothes- 
lines. Gwendolyn,  watching  from  the 
side  window  of  the  nursery,  pretended 
that  the  garments  were  so  many  tortured 
creatures,  vainly  struggling  to  be  free. 
And  she  wished  that  two  or  three  of  the 
whitest  and  prettiest  might  loose  their 
hold  and  go  flying  away — across  the 
crescent  of  the  Drive  and  the  wide  river 
—to  liberty  and  happiness  in  the  forest 
beyond. 

Among  the  flapping  lines  walked  maids 
77 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

— fully  a  score  of  them.  Some  were 
taking  down  wash  that  was  dry  and  stuff- 
ing it  into  baskets.  Others  were  busy 
hanging  up  limp  pieces,  first  giving  them 
a  vigorous  shake;  then  putting  a  small 
portion  of  each  over  the  line  and  pinching 
all  securely  into  place  with  huge  wooden 
pins. 

It  seemed  cruel. 

Yet  the  faces  of  the  maids  were  kind- 
kinder  than  the  faces  of  Miss  Royle  and 
Jane  and  Thomas.  Behind  Gwendolyn 
the  heavy  brocade  curtains  hung  touch- 
ing. She  parted  them  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  alone  in  the  nursery.  After 
which  she  raised  the  window — just  a 
trifle.  The  roofs  that  were  white  with 
laundry  were  not  those  directly  across 
from  the  nursery,  but  over-looked  the  next 
street.  Nevertheless,  with  the  window 

78 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

up,  Gwendolyn  could  hear  the  crack  and 
snap  of  the  whipping  garments,  and  an  in- 
distinct chorus  of  cheery  voices.  One 
maid  was  singing  a  lilting  tune.  The 
rest  were  chattering  back  and  forth. 
With  all  her  heart  Gwendolyn  envied 
them — envied  their  freedom,  and  the  fact 
that  they  were  indisputably  grown-up. 
And  she  decided  that,  later  on,  when  she 
was  as  big  and  strong,  she  would  be  a 
laundry-maid  and  run  about  on  just  such 
level  roofs,  joyously  hanging  up  wash. 

Presently  she  raised  the  window  a 
trifle  more,  so  that  the  lower  sill  was 
above  her  head.  Then,  "H00-hoo-oo- 
oo !"  she  piped  in  her  clear  voice. 

A  maid  heard  her,  and  pointed  her  out 
to  another.  Soon  a  number  were  looking 
her  way.  They  smiled  at  her,  too. 
Gwendolyn  smiled  in  return,  and  nodded. 

79 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  that,  one  of  a  group  snatched  up  a 
square  of  white  cloth  and  waved  it.  In- 
stantly Gwendolyn  waved  back. 

One  by  one  the  maids  went.  Then 
Gwendolyn  suddenly  recalled  why  she 
was  waiting  alone — while  Miss  Royle  and 
Jane  made  themselves  extra  neat  in  their 
respective  rooms;  why  she  herself  was 
dressed  with  such  unusual  care — in  a  pink 
muslin,  white  silk  stockings,  and  black 
patent-leather  pumps,  the  whole  crowned 
by  a  pink-satin  hair-bow.  With  the  re- 
membrance, the  pretend-game  was  for- 
gotten utterly :  The  lines  of  limp,  white 
creatures  on  the  roofs  flung  their  tortured 
shapes  about  unheeded. 

At  bed-time  the  previous  evening  Pot- 
ter had  telephoned  that  Madam  would 
pay  a  morning  visit  to  the  nursery.  The 
thought  had  kept  Gwendolyn  awake  for 
a  while,  smiling  into  the  dark,  kissing  her 

80 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

own  hands  for  very  happiness;  it  had 
made  her  heart  beat  wildly,  too.  For  she 
reviewed  all  the  things  she  intended 
broaching  to  her  mother — about  eating  at 
the  grown-up  table,  and  not  having  a 
nurse  any  more,  and  going  to  day-school. 
Contrary  to  a  secret  plan  of  action,  she 
slept  late.  At  breakfast,  excitement  took 
away  her  appetite.  And  throughout  the 
study-hour  that  followed,  her  eyes  read, 
and  her  lips  repeated  aloud,  several 
pages  of  standard  literature  for  juveniles 
that  her  busy  brain  did  not  comprehend. 
Yet  now  as  she  waited  behind  the  rose 
hangings  for  the  supreme  moment,  she 
felt,  strangely  enough,  no  impatience. 
With  three  to  attend  her,  privacy  was  not 
a  common  privilege,  and,  therefore, 
prized.  She  fell  to  inspecting  the  row  of 
houses  across  the  way — in  search  for  other 
strange  but  friendly  faces. 

81 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

There  were  exactly  twelve  houses  op- 
posite. The  corner  one  farthest  from  the 
river  she  called  the  gray-haired  house. 
An  old  lady  lived  there  who  knitted 
bright  worsted;  also  a  fat  old  gentleman 
in  a  gay  skull-cap  who  showed  much  at- 
tention to  a  long-leaved  rubber-plant  that 
flourished  behind  the  glass  of  the  street 
door.  Gwendolyn  leaned  out,  chin  on 
palm,  to  canvass  the  quaintly  curtained 
windows — none  of  which  at  the  moment 
framed  a  venerable  head.  Next  the  gray- 
haired  house  there  had  been — up  to  a  re- 
cent date — a  vacant  lot  walled  off  from 
the  sidewalk  by  a  high,  broad  bill-board. 
Now  a  pit  yawned  where  formerly  was  the 
vacant  space.  And  instead  of  the  fas- 
cinating pictures  that  decorated  the  bill- 
board (one  week  a  baby,  rosy,  dimpled  and 
laughing;  the  next  some  huge  lettering 

elaborately  combined  with  a  floral  design ; 

82 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  next  a  mammoth  bottle,  red  and 
beautiful,  and  flanked  by  a  single  gleam- 
ing word:  "Catsup")  there  towered— 
above  street  and  pit,  and  even  above  the 
chimneys  of  the  gray-haired  house — the 
naked  girders  of  a  new  steel  structure. 

The  girders  were  black,  but  rusted  to  a 
brick-color  in  patches  and  streaks.  They 
were  so  riveted  together  that  through 
them  could  be  seen  small,  regular  spots  of 
light.  Later  on,  as  Gwendolyn  knew, 
floors  and  windowed  walls  and  a  tin  top 
would  be  fitted  to  the  framework.  And 
what  was  now  a  skeleton  would  be  an- 
other house! 

Directly  opposite  the  nursery,  on  that 
part  of  the  side  street  which  sloped,  were 
ten  narrow  houses,  each  four  stories  high, 
each  with  brown-stone  fronts  and  brown- 
stone  steps,  each  topped  by  a  large 
chimney  and  a  small  chimney.  In  every 

83 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

detail  these  ten  houses  were  precisely 
alike.  Jane,  for  some  unaccountable  rea- 
son, referred  to  them  as  private  dwell- 
ings. But  since  the  roof  of  the  second 
brown-stone  house  was  just  a  foot  lower 
than  the  roof  of  the  first,  the  third  roof 
just  a  foot  lower  than  the  roof  of  the  sec- 
ond, and  so  on  to  the  very  tenth  and  last, 
Gwendolyn  called  these  ten  the  step- 
houses. 

The  step-houses  were  seldom  interest- 
ing. As  Gwendolyn's  glances  traveled 
now  from  brown-stone  front  to  brown- 
stone  front,  not  one  presented  even  the  re- 
lief of  a  visiting  post-man. 

Her  progress  down  the  line  of  step- 
houses  brought  her  by  degrees  to  the  brick 
house  on  the  Drive — a  large  vine-covered 
house,  the  wide  entrance  of  which  was 
toward  the  river.  And  no  sooner  had  she 
given  it  one  quick  glance  than  she  uttered 

84 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

a  little  shout  of  pleased  surprise.  The 
brick-house  people  were  back! 

All  the  shades  were  up.  There  was 
smoke  rising  from  one  of  the  four  tall 
chimneys.  And  even  as  Gwendolyn 
gazed,  all  absorbed  interest,  the  net  cur- 
tains at  an  upper  window  were  suddenly 
drawn  aside  and  a  face  looked  out. 

It  was  a  face  that  Gwendolyn  had 
never  seen  before  in  the  brick  house. 
But  though  it  was  strange,  it  was  entirely 
friendly.  For  as  Gwendolyn  smiled  it  a 
greeting,  it  smiled  her  a  greeting  back ! 

She  was  a  nurse-maid — so  much  was  evi- 
dent from  the  fact  that  she  wore  a  cap. 
But  it  was  also  plain  that  her  duties  dif- 
fered in  some  way  from  Jane's.  For  her 
cap  was  different — shaped  like  a  sugar- 
bowl  turned  upside-down;  hollow,  and 
white,  and  marred  by  no  flying  strings. 

And  she  was  not  a  red-haired  nurse- 
85 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

maid.  Her  hair  was  almost  as  fair  as 
Gwendolyn's  own,  and  it  framed  her  face 
in  a  score  of  saucy  wisps  and  curls.  Her 
face  was  pretty — full  and  rosy,  like  the 
face  of  Gwendolyn's  French  doll.  Also 
it  seemed  certain — even  at  such  a  distance 
—that  she  had  no  freckles.  Gwendolyn 
waved  both  hands  at  her.  She  threw  a 
kiss  back. 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  cried  Gwendolyn, 
out  loud.  She  threw  kisses  with  alter- 
nating finger-tips. 

The  nurse-maid  shook  the  curtains  at 
her.  Then — they  fell  into  place.  She 
was  gone. 

Gwendolyn  sighed. 

The  next  moment  she  heard  voices  in 
the  direction  of  the  hall — first,  Thomas's; 
next,  a  woman's — a  strange  one  this. 
Disappointed,  she  turned  to  face  the 
screening  curtains.  But  she  was  in  no 

86 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

mood  to  make  herself  agreeable  to  visit- 
ing friends  of  Miss  Royle's — and  who 
else  could  this  be? 

She  decided  to  remain  quietly  in  seclu- 
sion; to  emerge  for  no  one  except  her 
mother. 

A  door  opened.  A  heavy  step  ad- 
vanced, followed  by  the  murmur  of  trail- 
ing skirts  upon  carpet.  Then  Thomas 
spoke — his  tone  that  full  and  measured 
one  employed,  not  to  the  governess,  to 
Jane,  to  herself,  or  to  any  other  common 
mortal,  but  to  Potter,  to  her  father  and 
mother,  and  to  guests.  "This  is  Miss 
Gwendolyn's  nursery,"  he  announced. 

Beyond  the  curtains  were  persons  of 
importance ! 

She  shrank  against  the  window,  taking 
care  not  to  stir  the  brocade. 

"We  will  wait  here," — the  voice  was 
clear,  musical. 

87 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Thank  you."  Thomas's  heavy  step 
retreated.  A  door  closed. 

There  was  a  moment  of  perfect  still- 
ness. Then  that  musical  voice  began 
again : 

" Where  do  you  suppose  that  young  one 
is?" 

A  second  voice  rippled  out  a  low  laugh. 

Gwendolyn  laughed  too, — silently,  her 
face  against  the  glass.  The  fat  old  gen- 
tleman in  the  gray-haired  house  chanced 
to  be  looking  in  her  direction.  He  caught 
the  broad  smile  and  joined  in. 

"In  the  school-room  likely/3 — it  was  the 
first  speaker,  answering  her  own  inquiry 
—"getting  stuffed." 

Stuffed!  Gwendolyn  could  appreci- 
ate that.  She  choked  back  a  giggle  with 
one  small  hand. 

Someone  else  thought  the  declaration 

amusing,  for  there  was  another  well-bred 

88 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ripple;  then  once  more  that  murmur  of 
trailing  skirts,  going  toward  the  window- 
seat;  going  the  opposite  way  also,  as  if 
one  of  the  two  was  making  a  circuit  of 
the  room. 

Presently,  "Just  look  at  this  dressing- 
table,  Louise!  Fancy  such  a  piece  of 
furniture  for  a  child!  Ridiculous!" 

Gwendolyn  cocked  her  yellow  head  to 
one  side — after  the  manner  of  her  canary. 

"Bad  taste."  Louise  joined  her  com- 
panion. "Crystal,  if  you  please! 
Must've  cost  a  fabulous  sum." 

One  or  two  articles  were  moved  on  the 
dresser.  Then,  "Poor  little  girl!"  ob- 
served the  other  woman.  "Rich,  but — " 

Gwendolyn  puckered  her  brows 
gravely.  Was  the  speaker  referring  to 
kerf"  Clasping  her  hands  tight,  she 
leaned  forward  a  little,  straining  to 
catch  every  syllable.  As  a  rule  when 

89 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

gossip  or  criticism  was  talked  in  her  hear- 
ing, it  was  insured  against  being  under- 
stood by  the  use  of  strange  terms, 
spellings,  winks,  nods,  shrugs,  or  sudden 
stops  at  the  most  important  point.  But 
now,  with  herself  hidden,  was  there  not  a 
likelihood  of  plain  speech? 

It  came. 

The  voice  went  on:  "This  is  the  first 
time  you've  met  the  mother,  isn't  it?" 

"I  think  so/'— indifferently.  "Who  is 
she,  anyhow?" 

"Nobody." 

Gwendolyn  stared. 

"Nobody  at  all — absolutely.  You 
know,  they  say — "  She  paused  for 
emphasis. 

Now,  Gwendolyn's  eyes  grew  suddenly 
round;  her  lips  parted  in  surprise, 
again ! 

"Yes?"  encouraged  Louise. 
90 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Lower—  "They  say  she  was  just  an  ordi- 
nary country  girl,  pretty,  and  horribly 
poor,  with  a  fair  education,  but  no  culture 
to  speak  of.  She  met  him;  he  had  money 
and  fell  in  love  with  her;  she  married  him. 
And,  oh,  then!"  She  chuckled. 

"Made  the  money  fly?" 

The  two  were  coming  to  settle  them- 
selves in  chairs  close  to  the  side  window. 

"Not  exactly.  Haven't  you  heard 
what's  the  matter  with  her?" 

Gwendolyn's  face  paled  a  little. 
There  was  something  the  matter  with  her 
mother? — her  dear,  beautiful,  young 
mother !  The  clasped  hands  were  pressed 
to  her  breast. 

"Ambitious?"  hazarded  Louise,  confi- 
dently. 

"It's  no  secret.  Everybody's  laughing 
at  her, — at  the  rebuffs  she  takes;  the 
loney  she  gives  to  charity  (wedges,  you 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

understand)  ;  the  quantities  of  dresses 
she  buys;  the  way  she  slaps  on  the  jewels. 
She's  got  the  society  bee  in  her  bon- 
net!" 

Gwendolyn  caught  her  breath-  T^he 
society  bee  in  her  bonnet? 

"Ah!"  breathed  Louise,  as  if  compre- 
hending. Then,  "Dear!  dear!" 

"She  talks  nothing  else.  She  hears 
nothing  else.  She  sees  nothing  else." 

"Bad  as  that?" 

"Goes  wherever  she  can  shove  in — sub- 
scription lectures  and  musicales,  hospital 
teas,  Christmas  bazars.  And  she  benches 
her  Poms;  has  boxes  at  the  Horse  Show 
and  the  Opera;  gives  gold-plate  dinners, 
and  Heaven  knows  what!" 

"Ha!  ha!  Tou  haven't  boosted  her, 
dear?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  Make  a  point  of 
never  being  seen  anywhere  with  her." 

92 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"And  he?' 

Gwendolyn  swallowed.  He  was  her 
father. 

"Well,  it  has  kept  the  poor  fellow  in 
harness  all  the  time,  of  course.  You 
should  have  seen  him  when  he  first  came 
to  town — straight  and  boyish,  and  very 
handsome.  (You  know  the  type.)  He's 
changed!  Burns  his  candles  at  both 
ends." 

"Hm!" 

Gwendolyn  blinked  with  the  effort  of 
making  mental  notes. 

"You  haven't  heard  the  latest  about 
him?" 

"Trying  to  make  some  Club?" 

Whispering — "On  the  edge  of  a 
crash." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Oh,  a  little  bird." 

Up  came  both  palrns  to  cover  Gwen- 
93 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

dolyn's  mouth.  But  not  to  smother 
mirth.  A  startled  cry  had  all  but  escaped 
her.  A  little  bird!  She  knew  of  that 
bird!  He  had  told  things  against  her— 
true  things  more  often  than  not — to  Jane 
and  Miss  Royle.  And  now  here  he  was 
chattering  about  her  father ! 

"It's  the  usual  story/'  commented 
Louise  calmly,  "with  these  nouveaux 
riches" 

"Sh!"  A  moment  of  stillness,  as  if 
both  were  listening.  Then,  "Sprechen 
Sie  Deutsch?" 

"I — er — read  it  fairly  well." 

"Parlez-vous  Franc  ah?" 

"Oh,  oui!    Out!" 

"Allors"  And  there  followed,  in  un- 
dertones, a  short,  spirited  conversation  in 
the  Gallic. 

Gwendolyn  made  a  silent  resolution  to 
devote  more  time  and  thought  to  the 

94 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

peevish  and  staccato  instruction  of  Miss 
Du  Bois. 

The  two  were  interrupted  by  a  light, 
quick  step  outside.  Again  the  hall  door 
opened. 

"Oh,  you'll  pardon  my  having  to  desert 
you,  won't  you?"  It  was  Gwendolyn's 
mother.  "I  didn't  intend  being  so  long." 

Gwendolyn  half-started  forward,  then 
stopped. 

"Why,  of  course!" — with  sounds  of  ris- 
ing. 

"Cmainly!" 

"Differences  below  stairs,  I  find,  re- 
quire prompt  action." 

"I  fancy  you  have  oceans  of  executive 
ability,"  declared  Louise,  warmly.  "That 
Orphans'  Home  affair — I  hear  you  man- 
aged it  tre/#<?;2dously!" 

"No!  No!" 

"Really,  my  dear," — it  was  the  other 
95 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

woman — "to  be  quite  frank,  we  must  con- 
fess that  we  haven't  missed  you!  We've 
been  enjoying  our  glimpse  of  the 
nursery." 

"It's  simply  lovely!"  cried  Louise. 

"And  what  a  perfectly  sweet  dressing- 
table!" 

"Have  you  seen  my  little  daughter? 
-Thomas!" 

"Yes,  Madam." 

'There's  a  draught  corning  from  some- 
where— " 

"It's  the  side  window,  Madam." 

Instinctively  Gwendolyn  flattened  her- 
self against  the  wood-work  at  her  back. 

Three  or  four  steps  brought  Thomas 
across  the  floor.  Then  his  two  big  hands 
appeared  high  up  on  the  hangings.  The 
next  moment,  the  hands  parted,  sweeping 
the  curtains  with  them. 

To  escape  detection  was  impossible.    A 
96 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

quick  thought  made  Gwendolyn  raise  a 
face  upon  which  was  a  forced  expression 
that  bore  only  a  faint  resemblance  to  a 
smile. 

"Boo!"  she  said,  jumping  out  at  him. 

Startled,  he  fell  back.  "Why,  Miss 
Gwendolyn!" 

"Gwendolyn?"  repeated  her  mother, 
surprised.  "Why,  what  were  you  doing 
there,  darling?" 

"Gwendolyn!" — this  in  a  faint  gasp 
from  both  visitors. 

Gwendolyn  came  slowly  forward.  She 
did  not  raise  her  eyes;  only  curtsied. 

"So  this  is  your  little  daughter!"  A 
gloved  hand  was  reached  out,  and  Gwen- 
dolyn was  drawn  forward.  "How  cun- 
ning!" 

Gwendolyn  recognized  the  voice  of 
Louise.  Now,  she  looked  up.  And  saw 
a  pleasant  face,  young,  but  not  so  pretty 

97 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

as  her  mother's.  She  shook  hands  bash- 
fully. Then  shook  again  with  an  older 
woman,  whose  plain  countenance  was 
dimly  familiar.  After  which,  giving  a 
sudden  little  bound,  and  putting  up  eager 
arms,  she  was  caught  to  her  mother. 

"My  baby!" 

"Moth-erF 

Cheek  caressed  cheek. 

"She's  six,  isn't  she,  my  dear?"  asked 
the  plain,  elderly  one. 

"Oh,  she's  seven."  A  soft  hand  stroked 
the  yellow  hair. 

"As  much  as  that?    Really?" 

The  inference  was  not  lost  upon  Gwen- 
dolyn. She  tightened  her  embrace.  And 
turning  her  head  on  her  mother's  breast, 
looked  frank  resentment. 

The  visitors  were  not  watching  her. 
They  were  exchanging  glances — and 

smiles,    faint    and    uneasy.    Slowly  now 

98 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

they  began  to  move  toward  the  hall  door, 
which   stood   open.     Beside   it,    waiting 
with  an  impressive  air,  was  Miss  Royle. 
"I  think  we  must  go,  Louise/' 
"Oh,  we  must/' — quickly.    "Dear  me! 
Fd  almost  forgot!    We've  promised  to 
lunch   with   one   or   two   people   down- 


town/ 


"I  wish  you  were  lunching  here/5  said 
Gwendolyn's  mother.  She  freed  herself 
gently  from  the  clinging  arms  and  fol- 
lowed the  two.  "Miss  Royle,  will 
you  take  Gwendolyn?" 

As  the  governess  promptly  advanced, 
with  a  half-bow,  and  a  set  smile  that  was 
like  a  grimace,  Gwendolyn  raised  a  face 
tense  with  earnestness.  Until  half  an 
hour  before,  her  whole  concern  had  been 
for  herself.  But  now!  To  fail  to  grow 
up,  to  have  her  long-cherished  hopes  come 
short  of  fulfillment — that  was  one  thing. 

99 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

To  know  that  her  mother  and  father  had 
real  and  serious  troubles  of  their  own, 
that  was  another ! 

"Oh,  moth-er !    Don't  you  go !" 

"Mother  must  tell  the  ladies  good-by." 

"What  touching  affection !"  It  was 
the  elder  of  the  visiting  pair. 

Miss  Royle  assented  with  a  simper. 

"Will  you  come  back?"  urged  Gwen- 
dolyn, dropping  her  voice.  "Oh,  I  want 
to  see  you35 — darting  a  look  sidewise — "all 
by  myself." 

There  was  a  wheel  and  a  flutter  at  the 
door — another  silent  exchange  of  com- 
ment, question  and  exclamation,  all 
mingled  eloquently.  Then  Louise  swept 
back. 

"What  a  bright  child!"  she  enthused. 
"Does  she  speak  French?" 

"She  is  acquiring  two  tongues  at  pres- 
100 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ent,"  answered  Gwendolyn's  mother 
proudly,  " — French  and  German.5' 

"Splendid!"  It  was  the  elder  woman. 
"I  think  every  little  girl  should  have 
those.  And  later  on,  I  suppose,  Greek 
and  Latin?5 

"I've  thought  of  Spanish  and  Italian." 

"Eventually"  informed  Miss  Royle, 
with  a  conscious,  sinuous  shift  from  foot 
to  foot,  "Gwendolyn  will  have  seven 
tongues  at  her  command." 

"How  chic!"  Once  more  the  gloved 
hand  was  extended— to  pat  the  pink- 
satin  hair-bow. 

Gwendolyn  accepted  the  pat  stolidly. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  mother's  face. 

Now,  the  elder  of  the  strangers  drew 
closer.  "I  wonder,"  she  began,  address- 
ing her  hostess  with  almost  a  coy  air,  "if 

we  could  induce  you  to  take  lunch  with 

101 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

us  down-town.  Wouldn't  that  be  jolly, 
Louise  V9 — turning. 

"  Awfully  jollyl" 

"Do  cornel" 

"Oh,  do\" 

"Moth-er!" 

Gwendolyn's  mother  looked  down.  A 
sudden  color  was  mounting  to  her  cheeks. 
Her  eyes  shone. 

"We-e-ell,"  she  said,  with  rising  inflec- 
tion. 

It  was  acceptance. 

Gwendolyn  stepped  back,  the  pink 
muslin  in  a  nervous  grasp  at  either  side. 
"Oh,  won't  you  stay?'  she  half- 
whispered. 

"Mother'll  see  you  at  dinnertime, 
darling.  Tell  Jane,  Miss  Royle." 

A  bow. 

Louise  led  the  way  quickly,  followed  by 

the   elderly  lady.    Gwendolyn's   mother 

102 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

came  last.  A  bronze  gate  slid  between 
the  three  and  Gwendolyn,  watching  them 
go.  The  cage  lowered  noiselessly,  with  a 
last  glimpse  of  upturned  faces  and  wav- 
ing hands. 

Gwendolyn,  lips  pouting,  crossed  to- 
jward  the  school-room  door.  The  door 
was  slightly  ajar.  She  gave  it  a  smart 
pull. 

A  kneeling  figure  rose  from  behind  it. 
It  was  Jane,  who  greeted  her  with  a  nerv- 
ous, and  somewhat  apprehensive  grin. 

"I  was  waitin'  to  jump  out  at  Miss 
Royle  and  give  her  a  scare  when  she'd 
come  through/5  she  explained. 

Gwendolyn  said  nothing. 


103 


CHAPTER  IV 

FT  was  a  morning  abounding  in  unex- 
pected  good  fortune.  For  one  thing, 
Miss  Royle  was  indisposed — to  an  extent 
that  was  fully  convincing — and  was  lying 
down,  brows  swathed  by  a  towel,  in  her 
own  room;  for  another,  the  bursting  of 
a  hot-water  pipe  on  the  same  floor  as  the 
nursery  required  the  prompt  attention  of 
a  man  in  a  greasy  cap  and  Johnnie  Blake 
overalls,  who,  as  he  hammered  and 
soldered  and  coupled  lengths  of  piping 
with  his  wrench,  discussed  various 
grown-up  topics  in  a  loud  voice  with  Jane, 
thus  levying  on  her  attention.  Miss 
Royle's  temporary  incapacity  set  aside 

the  program  of  study  usual  to  each  fore- 

104 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

noon;  and  Jane's  suddenly  aroused  inter- 
est in  plumbing  made  the  canceling  of  that 
day's  riding-lesson  seem  advisable.  It 
was  Thomas  who  telephoned  the  postpone- 
ment. And  Gwendolyn  found  herself 
granted  some  little  time  to  herself. 

But  she  was  not  playing  any  of  the 
games  she  loved — the  absorbing  pretend- 
games  with  which  she  occupied  herself 
on  just  such  rare  occasions.  Her  own 
pleasure,  her  own  disappointment,  too, — 
these  were  entirely  put  aside  in  a  concern 
touching  weightier  matters.  Slippers 
upheld  by  a  hassock,  and  slender  pink- 
f rocked  figure  bent  across  the  edge  of  the 
school-room  table,  she  had  each  elbow 
firmly  planted  on  a  page  of  the  wide-open 
dictionary. 

At  all  times  the  volume  was  beguiling 

—this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  square 

of  black-board  always  carried  along  its 

105 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

top,  in  glaring  chalk,  the  irritating  re- 
minder: Use  Tour  Dictionary!  There 
was  diversion  in  turning  the  leaves  at 
random  (blissfully  ignoring  the  while  any 
white  list  that  might  be  inscribed  down 
the  whole  of  the  board)  to  chance  upon 
big,  strange  words. 

But  the  word  she  was  now  poring  over 
was  a  small  one.  "B-double-e,"  she 
spelled;  "Bee:  a  so-cial  hon-ey-gath-er-ing 


in-sect/: 


She  pondered  the  definition  with 
wrinkled  forehead  and  worried  eye.  "So- 
cial"— the  word  seemed  vaguely  linked 
with  that  other  word,  "Society,"  which  she 
had  so  fortunately  overheard.  But  what 
of  the  remainder  of  that  visitor's  never- 
to-be-forgotten  declaration  of  scorn? 
For  the  definition  had  absolutely  nothing 

to  say  about  any  bonnet. 

106 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  was  shoving  the  pages  forward  with 
an  impatient  damp  thumb  in  her  search 
for  Bonnet,  when  Thomas  entered,  slip- 
ping in  around  the  edge  of  the  hall  door 
on  soft  foot — with  a  covert  peek  nursery- 
ward  that  was  designed  to  lend  signifi- 
cance to  his  coming.  His  countenance, 
which  on  occasion  could  be  so  rigorously 
sober,  was  fairly  askew  with  a  smile. 

Gwendolyn  stood  up  straight  on  the 
hassock  to  look  at  him.  And  at  first  glance 
divined  that  something — probably  in  the 
nature  of  an  edible — might  be  expected. 
For  the  breast-pocket  of  his  liveried  coat 
bulged  promisingly. 

"Hello!"  he  saluted,  tiptoeing  genially 
across  the  room. 

"Hello!"  she  returned  noncommittally. 

Near  the  table,  he  reached  into  the 
bulging  pocket  and  drew  out  a  small  Ma- 

107 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

nila  bag.  The  bag  was  partly  open  at 
the  top.  He  tipped  his  head  to  direct  one 
black  eye  upon  its  contents. 

"Say,  Miss  Gwendolyn/'  he  began, 
"you  like  old  Thomas,  don't  you?" 

Gwendolyn's  nostrils  widened  and 
quivered,  receiving  the  tempting  fra- 
grance of  fresh-roasted  peanuts.  At  the 
same  time,  her  eyes  lit  with  glad  surprise. 
Since  her  seventh  anniversary,  she  had 
noted  a  vast  change  for  the  better  in  the 
attitude  of  Miss  Royle,  Thomas  and  Jane ; 
where,  previous  to  the  birthday,  it  had 
seemed  the  main  purpose  of  the  trio  (if 
not  the  duty)  to  circumvent  her  at  every 
turn — to  which  end,  each  had  a  method 
that  was  unique :  the  first  commanded;  the 
second  threatened;  Thomas  employed  sar- 
casm or  bribery.  But  now  this  wave  of 
thoughtfulness,  generosity  and  smooth 

speech! — marking  a  very  era  in  the  his- 

108 


The  Poor  LiUle  Rich  Girl 

tory  of  the  nursery.  Here  was  fresh  evi- 
dence that  it  was  continuing. 

Yet — was  it  not  too  good  to  last? 

"Why,  ye-enes,"  she  answered,  more 
than  half  guessing  that  this  time  bribery 
was  in  the  air. 

Btit  the  fragrant  bag  resolved  itself  into 
a  friendly  offering.  Thomas  let  It  drop 
to  the  table. 

Casting  her  last  doubt  aside,  Gwen- 
dolyn caught  it  up  eagerly.  Miss  Royle 
never  permitted  her  to  eat  peanuts,  which 
lent  to  them  all  the  charm  of  the  forbid- 
den. She  cracked  a  pod;  and  fell  to 
crunching  merrily. 

"And  you  wouldn't  like  to  see  me  go 
away,  would  you  now/5  went  on  Thomas. 

Her  mouth  being  crammed,  she  shook 
her  head  cordially. 

"Ah!    I  thought  so!"     He  tore  the  bag 

down  the  side  so  that  she  could  more  easily 

109 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

get  at  its  store.  Then,  leaning  down  con- 
fidentially, and  pointing  a  teasing  finger 
at  her,  "Ha!  Ha!  Who  was  it  got 
caught  spyin'  yesterday?" 

The  small  jaws  ceased  grinding.  She 
lifted  her  eyes.  Their  gray  was  suddenly 
clouded — remembering  what,  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  joy  in  the  peanuts  had  blotted 
out.  "But  I  wasnt  spying,"  she  denied 
earnestly. 

"Then  what  was  you  doin'? — still  as 
mice  behind  them  curtains." 

The  mist  cleared.  Her  face  sunned 
over  once  more.  "I  was  waving  at  the 
nurse  in  the  brick  house,"  she  explained. 

At  that,  up  went  Thomas's  head.  His 
mouth  opened.  His  ears  grew  red. 
"The  nurse  in  the  brick  house!"  he  re- 
peated softly. 

"The  one  with  the  curly  hair,"  went  on 
Gwendolyn,  cracking  more  pods. 

no 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Thomas  turned  his  face  toward  the  side 
window  of  the  school-room.  Through  it 
could  be  seen  the  chimneys  of  the  brick 
house.  He  smacked  his  lips. 

:cYou  like  peanuts,  too,"  said  Gwen- 
dolyn. She  proffered  the  bag. 

He  ignored  it.  His  look  was  dreamy. 
"There's  a  fine  Pomeranian  at  the  brick 
house,"  he  remarked. 

"It  was  the  first  time  I'd  ever  seen  her/' 
said  Gwendolyn,  with  the  nurse  still  in 
mind.  "Doesn't  she  smile  nice !" 

Now,  Thomas  waxed  enthusiastic. 
"And  she's  a  lot  prettier  close  to,"  he  de- 
clared, "than  she  is  with  a  street  between. 
Ah,  you  ought — 

That  moment,  Jane  entered,  fairly  dart- 
ing in. 

"Here!"  she  called  sharply  to  Gwen- 
dolyn. "What' re  you  eatin'?' 

"Peanuts,  Jane,"  —perfect  frankness 
in 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

being  the  rule  when  concealment  was  not 
possible. 

Jane  came  over.  "And  where' d  you  git 
'em?"  she  demanded,  promptly  seizing  the 
bag  as  contraband. 

"Thomas." 

Sudden  suspicion  flamed  fa  Jane's  red 
glance.  "Oh,  you  must've  di'd  Thomas  a 
grand  turn,"  she  observed. 

Thomas  shifted  from  foot  to  foot.  "I 
was— er — um — just  tellin'  Miss  Gwen- 
dolyn3 ' — he  winked  significantly — ' 'that 
she  wouldn't  like  to  lose  us." 

"So?"  said  Jane,  still  sceptical.  Then 
to  Gwendolyn,  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion. "Let  me  close  up  your  dictionary 
for  you,  pettie.  Jane  never  likes  to  see 
one  of  your  fine  books  lyin'  open  that  way. 
It  might  put  a  strain  on  the  back." 

Emboldened  by  that  cooing  tone,  Gwen- 
dolyn eyed  the  Manila  bag  covetously. 

112 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"I  didn't  eat  many,"  she  asserted,  gently 
argumentative. 

"Oh,  a  peanut  or  two  won't  hurt  you, 
lovie,"  answered  Jane,  kneeling  to  pre- 
sent the  bag.  Then  drawing  the  pink- 
f rocked  figure  close,  "And  you  didn't  tell 
him  what  them  two  ladies  had  to  say?" 

"No."  It  was  decisive.  "I  told  him 
about—" 

"I  didn't  ask  her,"  interrupted  Thomas. 
"No;  I  talked  about  how  she  loves  us. 
And  a-course,  she  does.  .  .  .  Jane,  ain't 
it  near  twelve?" 

But  Gwendolyn  had  no  mind  to  be  held 
as  a  tattler.  "I  told  him,"  she  continued, 
husking  peanuts  busily,  "about  the  nurse- 
maid at  the  brick  house." 

Jane  sat  back. 

"Ah?"  She  flashed  a  glance  at  Thomas, 
still  shifting  about  uneasily  mid-way  be- 
tween table  and  door. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Then,     "What    about    the    nurse-maid, 
dearie?" 

It  was  Gwendolyn's  turn  to  wax  enthu- 
siastic. "Oh,  she  has  such  sweet  hair!" 
she  exclaimed.  "And  she  smiles  nice!" 

Jealousy  hardened  the  freckled  visage 
of  the  kneeling  Jane.  "And  she's  taken 
with  you,  I  suppose,"  said  she. 

"She  threw  me  kisses,"  recounted 
Gwendolyn,  crunching  happily  the  while. 
"And,  oh,  Jane,  some  day  may  I  go  over  to 
the  brick  house?" 

"Some  day  you  may — not." 

Gwendolyn  recognized  the  sudden 
change  to  belligerence;  and  foreseeing  a 
possible  loss  of  the  peanuts,  commenced 
to  eat  more  rapidly.  "Well,  then,"  she 
persisted,  "she  could  come  over  here." 

Jane  stared.  "What  do  you  mean?" 
she  demanded  crossly.  "And  don't  you  go 
botherin'  your  poor  father  and  mother 

114 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 
about    this    strange    woman.    Do    you 


"But  she  takes  care  of  a  rich  little  girl. 
I  know  —  'cause  there  are  bars  on  the  base- 
ment windows.  And  Thomas  says  —  " 

"Oh,  come"  broke  in  Thomas,  urging 
Jane  hall  ward  with  a  nervous  jerk  of  the 
head. 

"Ah!"  Now  complete  understanding 
brought  Jane  to  her  feet.  She  fixed 
Thomas  with  blazing  eyes.  "And  what 
does  Thomas  say,  darlin'?" 

Thomas  waited.  His  ears  were  a  dead 
white. 

"There's  a  Pomeranian  at  the  brick 
house/'  went  on  Gwendolyn,  "and  the 
pretty  nurse  takes  it  out  to  walk.  And  —  " 

"And  Thomas  is  a-walkin'  our  Poms  at 
the  same  time."  Jane  was  breathing 
hard. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 
"And  he  says  she's  lots  prettier  close 


to—35 


A  bell  rang  sharply.  Thomas  sprang 
away.  With  a  gurgle,  Jane  flounced 
after. 

The  next  moment  Gwendolyn,  from 
the  hassock — upon  which  she  had  settled 
in  comfort — heard  a  wrangle  of  voices: 
First,  Jane's  shrill  accusing,  "It  was  you 
put  it  into  her  head ! — to  come — and  take 
my  place  from  under  me — and  the  food 
out  of  my  very  mouth — and  break  my 
hear-r-r-rt!"  Next,  Thomas's  sonorous, 
"Stuff  and  fiddle-sticks!"  then  sounds  of 
lamentation,  and  the  slamming  of  a  door. 

The  last  peanut  was  eaten.  As  Gwen- 
dolyn searched  out  some  few  remaining 
bits  from  the  crevices  of  the  bag,  she  shook 
her  yellow  hair  hopelessly.  Truly  there 
was  no  fathoming  grown-ups ! 

The  morning  which  had  begun  so  pro- 
ne 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

pitiously  ended  in  gloom.  At  the  noon 
dinner,  Thomas  looked  harassed.  He  had 
set  the  table  for  one.  That  single  plate, 
as  well  as  the  empty  arm-chair  so  popular 
with  Jane,  emphasized  the  infestivity. 
As  for  the  heavy  curtains  at  the  side  win- 
dow, which — as  near  as  Gwendolyn  could 
puzzle  it  out — were  the  cause  of  the  late 
unpleasantness,  these  were  closely  drawn. 
Having  already  eaten  heartily,  Gwen- 
dolyn had  little  appetite.  Furthermore, 
again  she  was  turning  over  and  over  the 
direful  statements  made  concerning  her 
parents.  She  employed  the  dinner-hour 
in  formulating  a  plan  that  was  simple  but 
daring — one  that  would  bring  quick  en- 
lightenment concerning  the  things  that 
worried.  Miss  Royle  was  still  indisposed. 
Jane  was  locked  in  her  own  room,  from 
which  issued  an  occasional  low  bellow. 
When  Thomas,  too,  was  out  of  the  way — 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

gone  pantry-ward  with  tray  held  aloft— 
she  would  carry  it  out!  It  called  for  no 
great  amount  of  time :  no  searching  of  the 
dictionary.  She  would  close  all  doors 
softly;  then  fly  to  the  telephone — and  call 
up  her  father. 

There  were  times  when  Thomas — as 
well  as  the  two  others — seemed  to  possess 
the  power  of  divination.  And  during  the 
whole  of  the  dinner  his  manner  showed 
distinct  apprehension.  The  meal  con- 
cluded, even  to  the  use  of  the  finger-bowl, 
and  all  dishes  disposed  upon  the  tray,  he 
hung  about,  puttering  with  the  table,  pick- 
ing up  crumbs  and  pins,  dusting  this 
article  and  that  with  a  napkin, — all  the 
while  working  his  lips  with  silent  speech, 
and  drawing  down  and  lifting  his  black 
eye-brows  menacingly. 

Meanwhile,  Gwendolyn  fretted.     But 

found  some  small  diversion  in  standing 

118 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

before  the  pier  glass,  at  which,  between 
the  shining  rows  of  her  teeth,  she  thrust 
out  a  tip  of  scarlet.  She  was  thinking 
about  the  discussion  anent  tongues  held 
by  her  mother  and  the  two  visitors. 

"Seven,"  she  murmured,  and  viewed 
the  greater  part  of  her  own  tongue 
thoughtfully;  "seven." 

The  afternoon  was  a  French-and-music 
afternoon.  Directly  after  dinner  might 
be  expected  the  Gallic  teacher — undesired 
at  any  hour.  Thomas  puttered  and 
frowned  until  a  light  tap  announced  her 
arrival.  Then  quickly  handed  Gwen- 
dolyn over  to  her  company. 

Mademoiselle  Du  Bois  was  short  and 
spare.  And  these  defects  she  emphasized 
by  means  of  a  wide  hat  and  a  long  feather 
boa.  She  led  Gwendolyn  to  the  school- 
room. There  she  settled  down  in  a  low 
chair,  opened  a  black  reticule,  took  out  a 

119 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

thick,  closely  written  letter,  and  fell  to 
reading. 

Gwendolyn  amused  herself  by  experi- 
menting with  the  boa,  which  she  fes- 
tooned, now  over  one  shoulder,  now  over 
the  other.  "Mademoiselle/'  she  began, 
"what  kind  of  a  bird  owned  these  feath- 
ers?" 

"Dear  me,  Mees  Gwendolyn,3'  chided 
Mademoiselle,  irritably  (she  spoke  with 
much  precision  and  only  a  slight  accent) , 
"how  you  talk!" 

^alk — the  word  was  a  cue!  Why  not 
make  certain  inquiries  of  Mademoiselle? 

"But  do  little  birds  ever  talk?"  re- 
turned Gwendolyn,  undaunted.  The  boa 
was  thin  at  one  point.  She  tied  a  knot  in 
it.  "And  which  little  bird  is  it  that  tells 
things  to — to  people?"  Then,  more  to 
herself  than  to  Mademoiselle,  who  was 

still  deep  in  her  letter,  "I  shouldn't  won- 

120 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

der  if  it  wasn't  the  little  bird  that's  in  the 
cuckoo  clock,  though — " 

"Ma  fair  exclaimed  Mademoiselle. 
She  seized  an  end  of  the  boa  and  drew 
Gwendolyn  to  her  knee.  'You  make  ze 
head  buzz.  Come!"  She  reached  for  a 
book  on  the  school-room  table.  "Atten- 
dez!" 

"Mademoiselle/5  persisted  Gwendolyn, 
twining  and  untwining,  "if  I  do  my 
French  fast  will  you  tell  me  something? 
What  does  nouveaux  riches  mean?" 

"Nouveaux  riches"  said  Mademoiselle, 
"is  not  on  ziss  page.  Attendez-vous!" 

Miss  Brown  followed  Mademoiselle  Du 
Bois,  the  one  coming  upon  the  heels  of 
the  other;  so  that  a  loud  crescendo  from 
the  nursery,  announcing  the  arrival  of  the 
music-teacher,  drowned  the  last  paragraph 
of  French. 

To  Gwendolyn  an  interruption  at  any 


121 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

time  was  welcome.  This  day  it  was 
doubly  so.  She  had  learned  nothing  from 
Mademoiselle.  But  Miss  Brown —  She 
made  toward  the  nursery,  doing  her  new- 
est dance  step. 

Miss  Brown  was  stocky,  with  a  firm 
tread  and  an  eye  of  decision.  As  Gwen- 
dolyn appeared,  she  was  seated  at  the 
piano,  her  face  raised  (as  if  she  were 
seeking  out  some  spot  on  the  ceiling), 
and  her  solid  frame  swaying  from  side  to 
side  in  the  ecstasy  of  performance.  Up 
and  down  the  key-board  of  the  instrument 
her  plump  hands  galloped. 

Gwendolyn  paused  beside  the  piano- 
seat.  The  air  was  vibrant  with  melody. 
The  lifted  face,  the  rocking,  the  ardent 
touch — all  these  inspired  hope.  The  gray 
eyes  were  wide  with  eagerness.  Each  cor- 
ner of  the  rosy  mouth  was  upturned. 

The  resounding  notes  of  a  march  ended 
122 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  a  bang.  Miss  Brown  straightened 
— got  to  her  feet — smiled  down. 

That  smile  gave  Gwendolyn  renewed 
encouragement.  They  were  alone.  She 
stood  on  tiptoe.  "Miss  Brown/'  she  be- 
gan, "did  you  ever  hear  of  a — a  bee  that 
some  ladies  carry  in  a — " 

Miss  Brown's  smile  of  greeting  went. 
"Now,  Gwendolyn,"  she  interrupted  se- 
verely, "are  you  going  to  begin  your  usual 
silly,  silly  questions?" 

Gwendolyn  fell  back  a  step.  "But  I 
didn't  ask  you  a  silly  question  day  before 
yesterday,"  she  plead.  "I  just  wanted  to 
know  how  anybody  could  call  my  German 
teacher  Miss  French." 

"Take  your  place,  if  you  please,55  bade 
Miss  Brown  curtly,  "and  don't  waste  my 
time."  She  pointed  a  stubby  finger  at  the 
piano-seat. 

Gwendolyn  climbed  up,  her  cheeks  scar- 
123 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

let  with  wounded  dignity,  her  breast 
heaving  with  a  rancor  she  dared  not  ex- 
press. "Do  I  have  to  play  that  old 
piece  ?"  she  asked. 

"You  must/' — with  rising  inflection. 

"Up  at  Johnnie  Blake's  it  sounded  nice. 
'Cause  my  moth-er — " 

"Ready!"  Miss  Brown  set  the  metro- 
nome to  tick-tocking.  Then  she  consulted 
a  watch. 

Gwendolyn  raised  one  hand  to  her  face, 
and  gulped. 

"Come !  Come !  Put  your  fingers  on  the 
keys." 

"But  my  cheek  itches." 

"Get  your  position,  I  say." 

Gwendolyn  struck  a  spiritless  chord. 

Miss  Brown  gone,  Gwendolyn  sought 
the  long  window-seat  and  curled  up 
among  its  cushions — at  the  side  which 
commanded  the  best  view  of  the  General. 

124 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Straight  before  that  martial  figure,  on  the 
bridle-path,  a  man  with  a  dump-cart  and  a 
shaggy-footed  horse  was  picking  up 
leaves.  He  used  a  shovel.  And  each 
time  he  raised  it  to  shoulder-height  and 
emptied  it  into  his  cart,  a  few  of  the  leaves 
went  whirling  away  out  of  reach — like 
frightened  butterflies.  But  she  had  no 
time  to  pretend  anything  of  the  kind.  A 
new  and  a  better  plan ! — this  was  what  she 
must  prepare.  For— heart  beating,  hands 
trembling  from  haste — she  had  tried  the 
telephone — and  found  it  dead  to  every 
Hello! 

But  she  was  not  discouraged.  She  was 
only  balked. 

The  talking  bird,  the  bee  her  mother 
kept  in  a  bonnet,  her  father's  harness,  and 
the  candles  that  burned  at  both  ends— if 
she  had  only  known  about  them  that  even- 
ing of  her  seventh  anniversary !  Ignoring 

125 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Miss  Royle's  oft-repeated  lesson  that 
"Nice  little  girls  do  not  ask  questions,"  or 
"worry  father  and  mother/'  how  easy  it 
would  have  been  to  say,  "Fath-er,  what 
little  bird  tells  things  about  you?"  and, 
"Moth-er,  have  you  really  got  a  bee  in 
your  bonnet?" 

But — the  questions  could  still  be  asked. 
She  was  balked  only  temporarily. 

She  got  down  and  crossed  the  room  to 
the  white-and-gold  writing-desk.  Two 
photographs  in  silver  frames  stood  upon 
it,  flanking  the  rose-embossed  calendar  at 
either  side.  She  took  them  down,  one  at 
a  time,  and  looked  at  them  earnestly. 

The  first  was  of  her  mother,  taken  long, 
long  ago,  before  Gwendolyn  was  born. 
The  oval  face  was  delicately  lovely  and 
girlish.  The  mouth  curved  in  a  smile  that 
was  tender  and  sweet. 

The  second  photograph  showed  a  clean- 

126 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

shaven,  boyish  young  man  in  a  rough  busi- 
ness-suit— this  was  her  father,  when  he 
first  came  to  the  city.  His  lips  were  set  to- 
gether firmly,  almost  determinedly.  But 
his  face  was  unlined,  his  dark  eyes  were 
full  of  laughter. 

Despite  all  the  well-remembered  com- 
mands Miss  Royle  had  issued;  despite 
Jane's  oft-repeated  threats  and  Thomas's 
warnings,  [and  putting  aside,  too,  any 
thought  of  what  punishment  might  follow 
her  daring]  Gwendolyn  now  made  a  firm 
resolution:  ^fo  see  at  least  one  of  her 
parents  immediately  and  alone. 

As  she  set  the  photographs  back  in  their 
places,  she  lifted  each  to  kiss  it.  She 
kissed  the  smiling  lips  of  the  one,  the 
laughing  eyes  of  the  other. 


127 


CHAPTER  V 

^TT^HE  crescent  of  the  Drive,  never  with- 
out  its  pageant;  the  broad  river 
thronged  with  craft;  the  high  forest- 
fringed  precipice  and  the  houses  that 
could  be  glimpsed  beyond — all  these 
played  their  part  in  Gwendolyn's  pretend- 
games.  She  crowded  the  Drive  with  the 
soldiers  of  the  General,  rank  upon  rank 
of  marching  men  whom  he  reviewed  with 
pride,  while  his  great  bronze  steed 
pranced  tirelessly;  and  she,  a  s wordless 
Joan  of  Arc  in  a  three-cornered  hat  and 
smartly- tailored  habit,  pranced  close  be- 
side to  share  all  honors  from  the  wide  back 
of  her  own  mettlesome  war-horse. 

As  for  the  river  vessels,  she  took  long 
128 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

pretend- journeys  upon  them — every  de- 
tail of  which  she  carefully  carried  out. 
The  companions  selected  were  those  smil- 
ing friends  that  appeared  at  neighboring 
windows;  or  she  chose  hearty,  happy 
laundresses  from  the  roofs;  adding,  by 
way  of  variety,  some  small,  bashful  ac- 
quaintances made  at  the  dancing-school 
of  Monsieur  Tellegen. 

But  more  often,  imagining  herself  a 
Princess,  and  the  nursery  a  prison-tower 
from  the  loop-holes  of  which  she  viewed 
the  great,  free  world,  she  liked  to  people 
the  boats  out  of  stories  that  Potter  had 
told  her  on  rare,  but  happy,  occasions.  A 
prosaic  down-traveling  steamer  became 
the  wonderful  ship  of  Ulysses,  his  seamen 
bound  to  smokestacks  and  railing,  his 
prow  pointed  for  the  ocean  whereinto  the 
River  crammed  its  deep  flood.  A  smaller 
boat,  smoking  its  way  up-stream,  changed 

129 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

into  the  fabled  bark  of  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Jason,  and  at  the  bow  of  this  Argo  sat 
Johnnie  Blake,  fish-pole  over  the  side, 
feet  dangling,  line  trailing,  and  a  silvery 
trout  spinning  at  the  hook.  A  third  boat, 
smaller  still,  and  driven  forward  by  oars, 
bore  a  sad,  level-lying,  white-clad  figure 
— Elaine,  dead  through  the  plotting  of 
cruel  servants,  and  now  rowed  by  the 
hoary  dumb  toward  a  peaceful  mooring  at 
the  foot  of  some  far  timbered  slope. 

In  each  of  the  houses  across  the  wide 
river,  she  often  established  a  pretend- 
home.  Her  father  was  with  her  always; 
her  mother,  too, — in  a  silken  gown,  with  a 
jeweled  chaplet  on  her  head.  But  her 
household  was  always  blissfully  free  of 
those  whose  chief  design  it  was  to  thwart 
and  terrify  her — Miss  Royle,  Jane, 
Thomas;  her  teachers  [as  a  body];  also, 
Policemen,  Doctors  and  Bears.  Old  Pot- 

130 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 


ter  was^o^  course,  the  pretend-butler. 
And  Rosa,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
she  had  once  been,  while  at  Johnnie 
Blake's,  the  herald  of  a  hated  bed-time, 
went  as  maid. 

Gwendolyn  had  often  secretly  coveted 
the  Superintendent's  residence  in  the  Park 
(so  that,  instead  of  straggling  along  a  con- 
crete pavement  at  rare  intervals,  held 
captive  by  the  hand  that  was  in  Jane's, 
she  might  always  have  the  right  to  race 
willy-nilly  across  the  grass  —  chase  the 
tame  squirrels  to  shelter  —  even  climb  a 
tree]  .  But  more  earnestly  did  she  covet 
a  house  beyond  the  precipice.  Were  there 
not  trees  there?  and  rocks?  Without 
doubt  there  were  Johnnie  Blake  glades  as 
well  —  glades  bright  with  flowers,  and 
green  with  lacy  ferns.  For  of  these  glades 
Gwendolyn  had  received  proof  :  Follow- 
ing a  sprinkle  on  a  cool  day,  a  light  west 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

wind  brought  a  butterfly  against  a  pane  of 
the  front  window.  When  Gwendolyn 
raised  the  sash,,  the  butterfly  fluttered  in, 
throwing  off  a^eweled  drop  as  he  came, 
and  alighted  upon  the  dull  rose  and  green 
of  a  flower  in  the  border  of  the  nursery 
rug.  His  wings  were  flat  together  and  he 
was  tipped  to  one  side,  like  a  skiff  with 
tinted  sails.  But  when  the  sails  were  dry, 
and  parted  once  more,  and  sunlight  had 
replaced  shower,  he  launched  forth  from 
the  pink  landing-place  of  Gwendolyn's 
palm — and  sped  away  and  away,  due 
west! 

But  the  view  from  the  side  window ! 

Beyond  the  line  of  step-houses,  and  be- 
yond the  buildings  where  the  maids  hung 
their  wash,  were  roofs.  They  seemed  to 
touch,  to  have  no  streets  between  them 
anywhere.  They  reached  as  far  as  Gwen- 
dolyn could  see.  They  were  all  heights. 

132 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

all  shapes,  all  varieties  as  to  tops — some 
being  level,  others  coming  to  a  point  at 
one  corner,  a  few  ending  in  a  tower.  One 
tower,  which  was  square,  and  on  the  outer- 
most edge  of  the  roofs,  had  a  clock  in  its 
summit.  When  night  settled,  a  light 
sprang  up  behind  the  clock — a  great, 
round  light  that  was  like  a  single  shining 
eye. 

She  did  not  know  the  proper  name  for 
all  those  acres  of  roof.  But  Jane  called 
them  Down-Town. 

At  all  times  they  were  fascinating.  Of 
a  winter's  day  the  snow  whitened  them 
into  beauty.  The  rain  washed  them  with 
its  slanting  down-pour  till  their  metal 
sheeting  glistened  as  brightly  as  the  sides 
of  the  General's  horse.  The  sea-fog,  ad- 
vanced by  the  wind,  blotted  out  all  but 
the  nearest,  wrapped  these  in  torn 
shrouds,  and  heaped  itself  about  the  dun- 

133 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

breathed  chimneys  like  the  smoke  of  a  hun- 
dred fires. 

She  loved  the  roofs  far  more  than  Drive 
or  River  or  wooded  expanse;  more  be- 
cause they  meant  so  much — and  that  with- 
out her  having  to  do  much  pretending. 
For  across  them,  in  some  building  which 
no  one  had  ever  pointed  out  to  her,  in  a 
street  through  which  she  had  never  driven, 
was  her  father's  office! 

She  herself  often  selected  the  building 
he  was  in,  placing  him  first  in  one  great 
structure,  then  in  another.  Whenever 
a  new  one  rose,  as  it  often  did,  there  she 
promptly  moved  his  office.  Once  for  a 
whole  week  he  worked  directly  under  the 
great  glowing  eye  of  the  clock. 

Just  now  she  was  standing  at  the  side 
window  of  the  nursery  looking  away 
across  the  roofs.  The  fat  old  gentleman 
at  the  gray-haired  house  was  sponging  off 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  rubber-plant,  and  waving  the  long 
green  leaves  at  her  in  greeting.  Gwen- 
dolyn feigned  not  to  see.  Her  lips  were 
firmly  set.  A  scarlet  spot  of  determina- 
tion burned  round  either  dimple.  Her 
gray  eyes  smouldered  darkly — with  a  pur- 
pose that  was  unswerving. 

"I'm  just  going  down  there!"  she  said 
aloud. 

Rustle!    Rustle!    Rustle! 

It  was  Miss  Royle,  entering.  Though 
Saturday  was  yet  two  days  away,  the  gov- 
erness was  preparing  to  go  out  for  the 
afternoon,  and  was  busily  engaged  in 
drawing  on  her  gloves,  her  glance  alter- 
nating between  her  task  and  the  time- 
piece on  the  school-room  mantel. 

"Gwendolyn  dear,"  said  she,  "you  can 
have  such  a  lovely  long  pretend-game  be- 
tween now  and  supper,  cant  you?" 

Gwendolyn   moved  her  head   up   and 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

down  in  slow  assent.  Doing  so,  she 
rubbed  the-  tip  of  her  nose  against  the 
smooth  glass.  The  glass  was  cool.  She 
liked  the  feel  of  it. 

"You  can  travel!"  enthused  Miss 
Royle.  "And  where  do  you  think  you'll 
go"?" 

The  gray  eyes  were  searching  the  tiers 
of  windows  in  a  distant  granite  pile. 
"Oh,  Asia,  I  guess/'  answered  Gwen- 
dolyn, indifferently.  (She  had  lately  re- 
viewed the  latter  part  of  her  geography.) 

"Asia?  Fine!  And  how  will  you 
travel,  darling?  In  your  sweet  car?" 

A  pause.  Miss  Royle  was  habitually 
honeyed  in  speech  and  full  of  suggestions 
when  she  was  setting  out  thus.  She  de- 
ceived no  one..  Yet — it  was  just  as  well 
to  humor  her. 

"Oh,  I'll  ride  a  musk-ox.  Or"— pick- 
ing at  random  from  the  fauna  of  the  world 

136 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

— "or  a  llama,  or  a' — a5  el'phunt."  She 
rubbed  her  nose  so  hard  against  the  glass 
that  it  gave  out  a  squeaking  sound. 

"Then  off  you  go!"  and,  Rustle! 
Rustle!  Rustle! 

Gwendolyn  whirled.  This  was  the  mo- 
ment, if  ever,  to  make  her  wish  known — 
to  assert  her  will.  With  a  running  patter 
of  slippers,  she  cut  off  Miss  Royle's  prog- 
ress. 

"That  tall  building  'way,  'way  down  on 
the  sky,"  she  panted. 

"Yes,  dear?" — with  a  simper. 

"Is  that  where  my  father  is?" 

The  smirk  went.  Miss  Royle  stared 
down.  "Er — why?"  she  asked. 

:  'Cause" — the  other's  look  was  met 
squarely —  '  'cause  I'm  going  down  there 
to  see  him." 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  governess. 

"I'm   going   to-day,"    went   on   Gwen- 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

dolyn,  passionately.     "I  want  to!"     Her 
lips  trembled.     "There's  something — " 

"Something  you  want  to  tell  him, 
dear  ?" — purringly. 

Confusion  followed  boldness.  Gwen- 
dolyn dropped  her  chin,  and  made  reply 
with  an  inarticulate  murmur. 

"Hm!"  coughed  Miss  Royle.  (Her 
hms  invariably  prepared  the  way  for  im- 
portant pronouncements.) 

Gwendolyn  waited — for  all  the  familiar 
arguments:  I  can't  let  you  go  until 
you're  sent  for,  dear;  Your  papa  doesn't 
want  to  be  bothered;  and,  This  is  prob- 
ably his  busy  day. 

Instead,  "Has  anyone  ever  told  you 
about  that  street,  Gwennie?" 

"No," — still  with  lowered  glance. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  go  down  into  it  if 
7  were  you."  The  tone  was  full  of  hid- 
den meaning. 

138 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then, 
"Why  not?"  asked  Gwendolyn,  back 
against  the  door.  The  question  was  put 
as  a  challenge.  She  did  not  expect  an 
answer. 

An  answer  came,  however.  "Well,  I'll 
tell  you :  The  street  is  full  of — bears." 

Gwendolyn  caught  her  hands  together 
in  a  nervous  grasp.  All  her  life  she  had 
heard  about  bears — and  never  any  good 
of  them.  According  to  Miss  Roy^  and 
Jane,  these  dread  animals — who  existed  in 
all  colors,  and  in  nearly  all  climes — made 
it  their  special  office  to  eat  up  little  girls 
who  disobeyed.  She  knew  where  several 
of  the  beasts  were  harbored — in  cages  at 
the  Zoo,  from  where  they  sallied  at  the 
summons  of  outraged  nurses  and  govern- 
esses. 

But  as  to  their  being  Down-Town — ! 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  lifted  a  face  tense  with  earnestness. 
"Is  it  true?"  she  asked  hoarsely. 

"My  dear/'  said  Miss  Royle,  gently  re- 
proving, "ask  anybody." 

Gwendolyn  reflected.  Thomas  was 
freely  given  to  exaggeration.  Jane,  at 
times,  resorted  to  bald  falsehood.  But 
Gwendolyn  had  never  found  reason  to 
doubt  Miss  Royle. 

She  moved  aside. 

The  governess  turned  to  the  school- 
room mirror  to  take  a  peep  at  her  poke,  and 
slung  the  chain  of  her  hand-bag  across  her 
arm.  Then,  'Til  be  home  early,"  she  said 
pleasantly.  And  went  out  by  the  door 
leading  into  the  nursery. 

Bears ! 

Gwendolyn  stood  bewildered.  Oh, 
why  were  the  Zoo  bears  in  her  father's 
street?  Did  it  mean  that  he  was  in  dan- 


ger? 


140 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  thought  sent  her  toward  the 
nursery  door.  As  she  went  she  glanced 
back  over  a  shoulder  uneasily. 

Close  to  the  door  she  paused.  Miss 
Royle  was  not  yet  gone,  for  there  was  a 
faint  rustling  in  the  next  room.  And 
Gwendolyn  could  hear  the  quick  shoo-ish, 
shoo-ish,  shoo-ish  of  her  whispering,  like 
the  low  purl  of  Johnnie  Blake's  trout- 
stream. 

Presently,  silence. 

Gwendolyn  went  in. 

She  found  Jane  standing  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  mouth  puckered  soberly, 
reddish  eyes  winking  with  disquiet,  ap- 
prehension in  the  very  set  of  her  heavy 
shoulders. 

The  sight  halted  Gwendolyn,  and  filled 
her  with  misgivings.  Had  Jane  just 
heard? 

When  it  came  time  to  prepare  for  the 
141 


The  Poor  Little  Ftich  Girl 

afternoon  motor-ride,  Gwendolyn  tested/ 
the  matter — yet  without  repeating  Miss 
Royle's  dire  statement. 

"Let's  go  past  where  my  fath-er's  office 
is  to-day,"  she  proposed.  And  tried  to 
smile. 

Jane  was  tucking  a  small  hand  through 
a  coat-sleeve.  "Well,  dearie/5  she  an- 
swered, with  a  sigh  and  a  shake  of  her 
red  head,  "you  couldn't  hire  me  to  go  into 
that  street.  And  I  wouldn't  like  to  see 
you  go." 

Gwendolyn  paled.  "Bears?"  she 
asked.  "Truly?" 

Jane  made  big  eyes.  Then  turning  the 
slender  little  figure  carefully  about, 
"Gwendolyn,  lovie,  Jane  thinks  you'd 
better  give  the  idear  up." 

So  it  was  true!  Jane — who  was  hap- 
piest when  standing  in  opposition  to 
others;  who  was  certain  to  differ  if  a  dif- 

142 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ference  was  possible — Jane  had  borne  it 
out! 

Moreover,  she  was  frightened!  For 
Gwendolyn  was  leaning  against  the  nurse. 
And  she  could  feel  her  shaking! 

Oh,  how  one  terrible  thing  followed 
another ! 

Gwendolyn  felt  utterly  cast  down. 
And  the  ride  in  the  swift-flying  car  only 
increased  her  dejection.  For  she  did  not 
even  have  the  entertainment  afforded 
by  Thomas's  enlivening  company.  He 
stayed  beside  the  chauffeur — as  he  had, 
indeed,  ever  since  the  memorable  feast 
of  peanuts — and  avoided  turning  his 
haughty  black  head.  Jane  was  morose. 
Now  and  then,  for  no  apparent  reason, 
she  sniffled. 

Gwendolyn's  mind  was  occupied  by  a 
terrifying  series  of  pictures  that  Miss 
Royle's  declaration  called  up.  The  cen- 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

tral  figure  of  each  picture  was  her  father, 
his  safety  threatened.  Arrived  home,  she 
resolved  upon  still  another  course  of  ac- 
tion. She  was  forced  to  give  up  visiting 
her  father  at  his  office.  But  she  would 
sfeal  down  to  the  grown-up  part  of  the 
house — at  a  time  other  than  the  dinner- 
hour — that  very  night! 

Evening  fell,  and  she  was  not  asked  to 
appear  in  the  great  dining-room.  That 
strengthened  her  determination.  How- 
ever, to  give  a  hint  of  it  would  be  folly. 
So,  while  Miss  Royle  picked  at  a  chop  and 
tittered  over  copious  draughts  of  tea,  and 
Thomas  chattered  unrebuked,  she  ate  her 
supper  in  silence. 

Ordinarily  she  rebelled  at  being  un- 
dressed. She  was  not  sleepy.  Or  she 
wanted  to  watch  the  Drive.  Or  she  did 
not  believe  it  was  seven — there  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  the  clock.  But  supper 

144 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

over,  and  seven  o'clock  on  the  strike,  she 
went  willingly  to  bed. 

When  Gwendolyn  was  under  the  covers, 
and  all  the  shades  were  down,  Jane  step- 
ped into  the  school-room,  leaving  the 
door  slightly  ajar.  She  snapped  on  the 
lights  above  the  school-room  table.  Then 
Gwendolyn  heard  the  crackling  of  a  news- 
paper. 

She  lay  thinking.  Why  had  she  not 
been  asked  to  the  great  dining-room?  At 
seven  her  father — if  all  were  well — should 
be  sitting  down  to  his  dinner.  But  was 
he  ill  to-night?  or  hurt? 

A  half-hour  dragged  past.  Jane  left 
her  paper  and  tiptoed  into  the  nursery. 
Gwendolyn  did  not  speak  or  move. 
When  the  nurse  approached  the  bed  and 
looked  down,  Gwendolyn  shut  her  eyes. 

Jane  tiptoed  out,  closing  the  door  behind 
her.  A  moment  later  Gwendolyn  heard 

145 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

another  door  open  and  shut,  then  the 
rumble  of  a  man's  deep  voice,  and  the 
shriller  tones  of  a  woman. 

The  chorus  of  indistinct  voices  made 
Gwendolyn  sleepy.  She  found  her  eye- 
lids drooping  in  spite  of  herself.  That 
would  never  do !  To  keep  herself  awake, 
she  got  up  cautiously,  put  on  her  slippers 
and  dressing-gown,  stole  to  the  front  win- 
dow, climbed  upon  the  long  seat,  and 
drew  aside  the  shade — softly. 

The  night  was  moonless.  Clouds  hid 
the  stars.  The  street  lamps  disclosed  the 
crescent  of  the  Drive  only  dimly.  Be- 
yond the  Drive  the  river  stretched  like 
a  smooth  wide  ribbon  of  black  satin.  It 
undulated  gently.  Upon  the  dark  water 
of  the  farther  edge  a  procession  of  lights 
laid  a  fringe  of  gold. 

There  were  other  lights — where,  be- 
yond the  precipice,  stood  the  forest  houses ; 

146 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

where  moored  boats  rocked  at  a  landing- 
place  up-stream;  and  on  boats  that  were 
plying  past.  A  few  lights  made  star- 
spots  on  the  cliff-side. 

But  most  brilliant  of  all  were  those 
forming  the  monster  letters  of  words. 
These  words  Gwendolyn  did  not  pro- 
nounce. For  Miss  Royle,  whenever  she 
chanced  to  look  out  and  see  them,  said 
"Shameful!"  or  "What  a  disgrace!"  or 
"Abominable !"  And  Gwendolyn  guessed 
that  the  words  were  wicked. 

As  she  knelt,  peering  out,  sounds  from 
city  and  river  came  up  to  her.  There  was 
the  distant  roll  of  street-cars,  the  warning 
honk!  honk!  of  an  automobile,  the  scream 
of  a  tug;  and  lesser  sounds — feet  upon  the 
sidewalk  under  the  window,  low  laughter 
from  the  dim,  tree-shaded  walk. 

She  wondered  about  her  father. 

Suddenly  there  rose  to  her  window  a 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

long-drawn  cry.  She  recognized  it — the 
high-keyed,  monotonous  cry  of  a  man  who 
often  hurried  past  with  a  bundle  of  news- 
papers under  his  arm.  Now  it  startled 
her.  It  filled  her  with  foreboding. 

"Uxtra!  Uxtra!  A-a-all  about  the 
lubble-lubble-lubble  in  ump  Street !" 

Street!  What  street?  Gwendolyn 
strained  her  ears  to  catch  the  words. 
What  if  it  were  the  street  where  her 
fath- 

"Uxtra !  Uxtra !"  cried  the  voice  again. 
It  was  nearer,  yet  the  words  were  no 
clearer.  " A-a-all  about  the  lubble-lubble- 
lubble  in  ump  Street!" 

He  passed.  His  cry  died  in  the  dis- 
tance. Gwendolyn  let  the  window-shade 
go  back  into  place  very  gently.  To  pre- 
pare properly  for  her  trip  downstairs 
meant  running  the  risk  of  discovery.  She 
tiptoed  noiselessly  to  the  school-room 

148 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

door.  There  she  listened.  Thomas's 
deep  voice  was  still  rumbling  on. 
Punctuating  it  regularly  was  a  sniffle. 
And  the  key-hole  showed  a  spot  of  glint- 
ing red — Jane's  hair. 

Gwendolyn  left  the  school-room  door 
for  the  one  opening  on  the  hall. 

In  the  hall  were  shaded  lights.  Light 
streamed  up  the  bronze  shaft.  Gwen- 
dolyn put  her  face  against  the  scrolls  and 
peered  down.  The  cage  was  far  below. 
And  all  was  still. 

The  stairs  wound  their  carpeted  length 
before  her.  She  slipped  from  one  step  to 
another  warily,  one  hand  on  the  polished 
banisters  to  steady  herself,  the  other 
carrying  her  slippers.  At  the  next  floor 
she  stopped  before  crossing  the  hall — to 
peer  back  over  a  shoulder,  to  peer  ahead 
down  the  second  flight. 

Outside  the  high  carved  door  of  the 

149 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

library  she  stopped  and  put  on  the  slippers. 
And  she  could  not  forbear  wishing  that  she 
knew  which  was  really  her  best  foot,  so 
that  she  might  put  it  forward.  But  there 
was  no  time  for  conjectures.  She  bore 
down  with  both  hands  on  the  huge  knob, 
and  pressed  her  light  weight  against  the 
panels.  The  heavy  door  swung  open. 
She  stole  in. 

The  library  had  three  windows  that 
looked  upon  the  side  street.  These  win- 
dows were  all  set  together,  the  middle  one 
being  built  out  farther  than  the  other  two, 
so  as  to  form  an  embrasure.  Over 
against  these  windows,  in  the  shallow  bow 
they  formed,  was  a  desk,  of  dark  wood, 
and  glass-topped.  It  was  scattered  with 
papers  and  books.  Before  it  sat  her 
father. 

The  moment  her  eyes  fell  upon  him  she 
realized  that  she  had  not  come  any  too 

150 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

soon.  For  his  shoulders  were  bent  as 
from  a  great  weight.  His  head  was 
bowed.  His  face  was  covered  by  his 
hands. 

She  went  forward  swiftly.  When  she 
was  between  the  desk  and  the  windows 
she  stopped,  but  did  not  speak.  She 
kept  her  gray  eyes  on  those  shielding 
hands. 

Presently  he  sighed,  straightened  on  his 
chair,  and  looked  at  her. 

For  one  instant  Gwendolyn  did  not 
move — though  her  heart  beat  so  wildly 
that  it  stirred  the  lace  ruffles  of  her  dress- 
ing-gown. Then,  remembering  dancing 
instructions,  she  curtsied. 

A  smile  softened  the  stern  lines  of  her 
father's  mouth.  It  traveled  up  his 
cheeks  in  little  ripples,  and  half  shut  his 
tired  eyes.  He  put  out  a  hand. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Why,  hello,  daughter/'  he  said  wear- 
ily, but  fondly. 

She  felt  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire 
to  throw  out  her  arms  to  him,  to  clasp  his 
neck,  to  cry,  "Oh,  daddy!  daddy!  I 
don't  want  them  to  hurt  you!"  But  she 
conquered  it,  her  underlip  in  her  teeth, 
and  put  a  small  hand  in  his  outstretched 
one  gravely. 

"I — I  heard  the  man  calling/'  she  be- 
gan timidly.  "And  I — I  thought  maybe 
the  bears  down  in  your  street — " 

"Ah,  the  bears!"  He  gave  a  bitter 
laugh. 

So  Miss  Royle  had  told  the  truth! 
The  hand  in  his  tightened  its  hold. 
"Have  the  bears  ever  frightened  you?" 
she  asked,  her  voice  trembling. 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  put  his 
head  on  one  side  and  looked  at  her — for 
a  full  half-minute.  Then  he  nodded. 

152 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "yes>  dear, — once  or 
twice." 

She  had  planned  to  spy  out  at  least  a 
strap  of  the  harness  he  wore;  to  examine 
closely  what  sort  of  candles,  if  any,  he 
burned  in  the  seclusion  of  the  library. 
Now  she  forgot  to  do  either;  could  not 
have  seen  if  she  had  tried.  For  her  eyes 
were  swimming,  blinding  her. 

She  swayed  nearer  him.  "If — if  you'd 
take  Thomas  along  on  your  car/'  she  sug- 
gested chokingly.  "He  hunted  el'phunts 
once,  and — and  /  don't  need  him/' 

Her  father  rose.  He  was  not  looking 
at  her — but  away,  beyond  the  bowed  win- 
dows, though  the  shades  of  these  were 
drawn,  the  hangings  were  in  place. 
And,  "No!"  he  said  hoarsely;  "not  yet! 
I'm  not  through  fighting  them  yet!" 

"Daddy!"  Fear  for  him  wrung  the 
cry  from  her. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

His  eyes  fell  to  her  upturned  face. 
And  as  if  he  saw  the  terror  there,  he  knelt, 
suddenly  all  concern.  "Who  told  you 
about  the  bears,  Gwendolyn?" — with  a 
note  of  displeasure. 

"Miss  Royle." 

"That  was  wrong — she  shouldn't  have 
done  it.  There  are  things  a  little  girl 
can't  understand."  His  eyes  were  on  a 
level  with  her  brimming  ones. 

The  next  moment — "Gwendolyn! 
Gwendolyn !  Oh,  where's  that  child!" 
The  voice  was  Jane's.  She  was  pound- 
ing her  way  down  the  stairs. 

Before  Gwendolyn  could  put  a  finger 
to  his  lips  to  plead  for  silence,  "Here, 
Jane,"  he  called,  and  stood  up  once  more. 

Jane  came  in,  puffing  with  her  haste. 
"Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  she  cried.  "It  give 
me  such  a  turn,  her  stealin'  off  like  that! 
Madam  doesn't  like  her  to  be  up  late,  as 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

she  well  knows.  And  I'll  be  blamed  for 
this,  sir,  though  I  take  pains  to  follow 
out  Madam's  orders  exact/3  She  seized 
Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn,  eyes  dry  now,  and  defiant, 
pulled  back  with  all  the  strength  of  her 
slender  arm.  "Oh,  fath-er!"  she  plead. 
"Oh,  please,  I  don't  want  to  go!" 

"Why !  Why !  Why !"  It  was  reproval ; 
but  tender  reproval,  mixed  with  mild 
amazement. 

"Oh,  I  want  to  tell  you  something," 
cried  Gwendolyn.  "Let  me  stay  just  a 
minute" 

'That's  just  the  way  she  acts,  sir,  when- 
ever it's  bed-time,"  mourned  Jane. 

He  leaned  to  lift  Gwendolyn's  chin 
gently.  "Father  thinks  she'd  better  go 
now,"  he  said  quietly.  "And  she's  not 
to  worry  her  blessed  baby  head  any  more/' 
Then  he  kissed  her. 

*S5 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  kiss,  the  knowledge  that  strife  was 
futile,  the  sadness  of  parting — these 

brought  the  great  sobs.    She  went  without 

t 

resisting,  but  stumbling  a  little;  the  back 
of  one  hand  was  laid  against  her  stream- 
ing eyes. 

Half  a  flight  up  the  stairs,  Jane  turned 
her  right  about  at  a  bend.  Then  she 
dropped  the  hand  to  look  over  the  ban- 
isters. And  through  a  blur  of  tears  saw 
her  father  watching  after  her,  his  shoul- 
ders against  the  library  door. 

He  threw  a  kiss. 

Then  another  bend  of  the  staircase  hid 
his  upturned  face. 


156 


CHAPTER  VI 

/GWENDOLYN  was  lying  on  her  back 
^^  in  the  middle  of  the  nursery  floor. 
The  skein  of  her  flaxen  hair  streamed 
about  her  shoulders  in  tangles.  Her  head 
being  unpillowed,  her  face  was  pink — and 
pink,  too,  with  wrath.  Her  blue-and- 
white  frock  was  crumpled.  She  was  kick- 
ing the  rug  with  both  heels. 

It  was  noon.  And  Miss  Royle  was  hav- 
ing her  dinner.  Her  face,  usually  so 
pale,  was  dark  with  anger — held  well  in 
check.  Her  expression  was  that  of  one 
who  had  recently  suffered  a  scare,  and  her 
faded  eyes  shifted  here  and  there  un- 
easily. Thomas,  too,  looked  apprehensive 
as  he  moved  between  table  and  tray. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Jane  was  just  gone,  showing,  as  she  dis- 
appeared, lips  nervously  pursed,  and  a 
red,  roving  glance  that  betokened  worry. 

Gwendolyn,  watching  out  from  under 
the  arm  that  rested  across  her  forehead, 
realized  how  her  last  night's  breach  of 
authority  had  impressed  each  one  of  them. 
And  secretly  rejoicing  at  her  triumph,  she 
kept  up  a  brisk  tattoo. 

Miss  Royle  ignored  her.  "I'll  take  a 
little  more  chocolate,  Thomas,"  she  said, 
with  a  fair  semblance  of  calm.  But  cup 
and  saucer  rattled  in  her  hand. 

Thomas,  too,  feigned  indifference  to  the 
rat !  tat !  tat !  of  heels.  He  bent  above  the 
table  attentively.  And  to  Gwendolyn 
was  wafted  down  a  sweet  aroma. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Royle.  "And 
cake,  too?  Splendid!  How  did  you 
manage  it?"  A  knife-edge  cut  against 
china.  She  helped  herself  generously. 

158 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  fell  silent  to  listen. 

"Well,  I  haven't  Mr.  Potter  to  thank/' 
said  Thomas,  warmly;  "only  my  own 
forethoughtedness,  as  you  might  say. 
The  first  time  I  ever  set  eyes  on  it  I  seen 
it  was  the  kind  that'd  keep,  so — " 

From  under  the  shielding  arm  Gwen- 
dolyn blinked  with  indignation.  Her 
birthday  cake! 

"Say,  Miss  Royle,"  chuckled  Thomas, 
replenishing  the  chocolate  cup,  "that  was 
a'  awful  whack  you  give  Miss  J —  last 
night/' 

At  once  Gwendolyn  forgot  the  wrong 
put  upon  her  in  the  matter  of  the  cake — 
in  astonishment  at  this  new  turn  of  af- 
fairs. Evidently  Miss  Royle  and  Thomas 
were  leagued  against  Jane ! 

The  governess  nodded  importantly. 
"She  was  only  a  cook  before  she  came 
here,"  she  declared  contemptuously. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Down  at  the  Employment  Agency,  where 
Madam  got  her,  they  said  so.  The  com- 
mon, two-faced  thing !"  This  last  was 
said  with  much  vindictiveness.  Follow- 
ing it,  she  proffered  Thomas  the  cake- 
plate. 

"Thanks,"  said  he;  "I  don't  mind  if  I 
do  have  a  slice." 

Now,  of  a  sudden,  wrath  and  resent- 
ment possessed  Gwendolyn,  sweeping  her 
like  a  wave — at  seeing  her  cake  portioned 
out;  at  having  her  kicking  ignored;  at 
hearing  these  two  openly  abuse  Jane. 

"I  want  some  strawberries,55  she  stormed, 
pounding  the  rug  full  force.  "And  an 
egg.  I  wont  eat  dry  bread!55  Bang! 
Bang!  Bang! 

Miss  Royle  half-turned.  "Did  you 
ask  to  go  down  to  the  library?5'  she  in- 
quired. She  seemed  totally  undisturbed; 

yet  her  eyes  glittered. 

1 60 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Did  she  ask?"  snorted  Thomas. 
"She's  gettin'  very  forward,  she  is." 

"No,  you  knew  better,"  went  on  Miss 
Royle.  :<You  knew  I  wouldn't  permit 
you  to  bother  your  father  when  he  didn't 
want  you — " 

"He  did  want  me!" — choking  with  a 
sob. 

"Think,"  resumed  the  governess,  inflect- 
ing her  tones  eloquently,  "of  the  fortune 
he  spends  on  your  dresses,  and  your  pony, 
and  your  beautiful  car !  And  he  hires  all 
of  us" — she  swept  a  gesture — "to  wait  on 
you,  you  naughty  girl,  and  try  to  make 
a  little  lady  out  of  you — " 

"I  hate  ladies!"  cried  Gwendolyn,  rap- 
ping her  heels  by  way  of  emphasis. 

"Tale-bearing  is  vulgar"  asserted  Miss 
Royle. 

"Next  year  I'm  going  to  day-school  like 
Johnnie  Blake!" 

161 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  hush  your  nonsense!"  commanded 
Thomas,  irritably. 

Miss  Royle  glanced  up  at  him.  'That 
will  do,"  she  snapped. 

He  bridled  up.  "What  the  little  imp 
needs  is  a  good  paddlin',"  he  declared. 

"Well,  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
disciplining  of  the  child.  That  is  my 
business." 

"It's  what  she  needs,  all  the  same.  The 
very  idear  of  her  bawlin'  all  the  mornin' 
at  the  top  of  her  lungs — " 

"I  did  not  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,"  con- 
tradicted Gwendolyn.  "I  cried  with  my 
mouth." 

" — So's  the  whole  house  can  hear,"  con- 
tinued Thomas;  "and  beatin'  about  the 
floor.  It's  clear  shameful,  /  say,  and 
enough  to  give  a  sensitive  person  the 
nerves.  As  I  remarked  to  Jane  only — ' 


162 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"You  remark  too  many  things  to  Jane," 
interposed  the  governess,  curtly. 

Now  he  sobered.  "I  hope  you  ain't  dis- 
pleased with  me/'  he  ventured. 

"Ain't  displeased?"  repeated  Miss 
Royle,  more  than  ever  fretful.  "Oh, 
Thomas,  do  stop  murdering  the  King's 
English!" 

At  that  Gwendolyn  sat  up,  shook  back 
her  hair,  and  raised  a  startled  face  to  the 
row  of  toys  in  the  glass-fronted  case. 
Murdering  the  King's  English!  Had  he 
dared  to  harm  her  soldier  with  the  scarlet 
coat? 

"I  was  urgin'  your  betterin',  too,  Miss 
Royle/'  reminded  Thomas,  gently.  "I 
says  to  Jane,  I  says — " 

The  soldier  was  in  his  place,  safe.  Re- 
lieved, Gwendolyn  straightened  out  once 
more  on  her  back. 

" — 'The  whole  lot  of  us  ought  to  be  paid 
163 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

higher  wages  than  we're  gettiru  for  it's 
a  real  trial  to  have  to  be  under  the  same 
roof  with  such  a  provokin5 — ' 3 

Miss  Royle  interrupted  by  vigorously 
bobbing  her  head.  "Oh,  that  I  have  to 
make  my  living  in  this  way!"  she  ex- 
claimed, voice  deep  with  mournfulness. 
"I'd  rather  wash  dishes!  I'd  rather  scrub 
floors !  I'd  rather  star-r-ve!" 

Something  in  the  vehemence,  or  in  the 
cadence,  of  Miss  Royle's  declaration 
again  gave  Gwendolyn  that  sense  of  tri- 
umph. With  a  sudden  curling  up  of  her 
small  nose,  she  giggled. 

Miss  Royle  whirled  with  a  rustle  of  silk 
skirts.  "Gwendolyn,"  she  said  threaten- 
ingly, "if  you're  going  to  act  like  that,  I 
shall  know  there's  something  the  matter 
with  you,  and  I  shall  certainly  call  a  doc- 
tor." 

Gwendolyn  lay  very  still.  As  Thomas 
164 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

glanced  down  at  her,  smirking  exultantly, 
her  smile  went,  and  the  pink  of  wrath  once 
more  surged  into  her  face. 

"And  the  doctor'll  give  nasty  medicine/' 
declared  Thomas,  "or  maybe  he'll  cut  out 
your  appendix!" 

"Potter  won't  let  him." 

"Potter!  Huh! — He'll  cut  out  your 
appendix,  and  charge  your  papa  a  thou- 
sand dollars.  Oh,  you  bet,  them  that's 
naughty  always  pays  the  piper." 

Gwendolyn  got  to  her  feet.  "I  won't 
pay  the  piper,"  she  retorted.  "Fm  go- 
ing to  give  all  my  money  to  the  hand-or- 
gan man — all  of  it.  I  like  him"  taunt- 
ingly. "But  I  hate — you." 

"We  hate  a  sneak,"  observed  Miss 
Royle,  blandly. 

The  little  figure  went  rigid.  "And  I 
hate  you"  she  cried  shrilly.  Then  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

165 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Gwen-do-lyn!"  It  was  a  solemn  and 
horrified  warning. 

Gwendolyn  turned  and  walked  slowly 
toward  the  window-seat.  Her  breast  was 
heaving. 

"Come  back  and  sit  in  this  chair/'  bade 
the  governess. 

Gwendolyn  paused,  but  did  not  turn. 

"Shall  I  fetch  you?5 

"Can't  I  even  look  out  of  the  window?' 
burst    forth    Gwendolyn.    "Oh,    you— 
you — you — "  (she  yearned  to  say  Snake- 
in-the-grass ! — yet  dared  not)  "you  mean! 
mean!"    Her  voice  rose  to  a  scream. 

Miss  Royle  stood  up.  "I  see  that  you 
want  to  go  to  bed,"  she  declared. 

The  torrent  of  Gwendolyn's  anger  and 
resentment  surged  and  broke  bounds. 
She  pivoted,  arms  tossing,  face  aflame. 
There  were  those  wicked  words  across  the 
river  that  each  night  burned  themselves 

166 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

upon  the  dark.  She  had  never  pro- 
nounced them  aloud  before ;  but — 

"Starch!"  she  shrilled,  stamping  a  foot. 
"Villa  sites!  Borax!  Shirts!" 

Miss  Royle  gave  Thomas  a  worried 
stare.  He,  in  turn,  fixed  her  with  a  look 
of  alarm.  So  much  Gwendolyn  saw  be- 
fore she  flung  herself  down  again,  sob- 
bing aloud,  but  tearlessly,  her  cheek  upon 
the  rug. 

She  heard  Miss  Royle  rustle  toward  the 
school-room;  heard  Thomas  close  the  door 
leading  into  the  hall.  There  were  times 
—the  nursery  had  seen  a  few — when  the 
trio  found  it  well  to  let  her  severely 
alone. 

Now  only  a  hoarse  lamenting  broke  the 
quiet. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  some  one 
tapped  on  the  school-room  door — Miss 
French,  doubtless,  since  it  was  her  allotted 

167 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

time.  The  lamentations  swelled  then — 
and  grew  fainter  only  when  the  last  foot- 
fall died  away  on  the  stairs.  Then  Gwen- 
dolyn slept. 

Awakening,  she  lay  and  watched  out 
through  the  upper  panes  of  the  front  win- 
dow. Across  the  square  of  serene  blue 
framed  by  curtains  and  casing,  small 
clouds  were  drifting — clouds  dazzlingly 
white.  She  pretended  the  clouds  were  fat, 
snowy  sheep  that  were  passing  one  by  one. 

Thus  had  snowy  flocks  crossed  above  the 
trout-stream.  Oh,  where  was  that  stream? 
the  glade  through  which  it  flowed?  the 
shingled  cottage  among  the  trees  ? 

With  all  her  heart  Gwendolyn  wished 
she  were  a  butterfly. 

Suddenly  she  sat  up.  She  had  found  her 
way  alone  to  the  library.  Why  not  put 
on  hat  and  coat  and  go  to  Johnnie 

Blake's? 

168 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  was  at  the  door  of  the  wardrobe  be- 
fore she  remembered  the  kidnapers,  and 
realized  that  she  dared  not  walk  out 
alone.  But  Potter  liked  the  country. 
Besides,  he  knew  the  way.  She  decided 
to  ask  him  to  go  with  her — old  and  stooped 
though  he  was.  Perhaps  she  would  also 
take  the  pretty  nurse-maid  at  the  corner. 
And  those  who  were  left  behind — Miss 
Royle  and  Thomas  and  Jane — would  all 
be  sorry  when  she  was  gone. 

But  let  them  fret !  Let  them  weep,  and 
wish  her  back !  She — 

That  moment  she  caught  sight  of  the 
photographs  on  the  writing-desk.  She 
stood  still  to  look  at  them.  As  she  looked, 
both  pictured  faces  gradually  dimmed. 
For  tears  had  come  at  last — at  the  thought 
of  leaving  father  and  mother — quiet 
tears  that  flowed  in  erratic  little  S's  be- 
tween gray  eyes  and  trembling  mouth. 

169 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

How  could  she  forsake  them? 

"Gwendolyn/5  she  half  -  whispered, 
"s'pose  we  just  pu-play  the  Johnnie  Blake 
Pretend  .  .  .  Oh,  very  well," — this  last 
with  all  of  Miss  Royle's  precise  intona- 
tion. 

The  heavy  brocade  hangings  were  the 
forest  trees.  The  piano  was  the  moun- 
tain, richly  inlaid.  The  table  was  the  cot- 
tage, and  she  rolled  it  nearer  the  dull  rose 
timber  at  the  side  window.  The  rug  was 
the  grassy,  flowery  glade;  its  border,  the 
stream  that  threaded  the  glade.  Beyond 
the  stream  twisted  an  unpaved  and  care- 
fully polished  road. 

The  first  part  of  this  particular  Pretend 
was  the  drive  to  the  village — carved  and 
enameled,  and  paneled  with  woven 
cane.  A  hassock  did  duty  for  a  runabout 
that  had  no  top  to  shut  out  the  sun-light, 

no  windows  to  bar  the  fragrant  air.     In 

170 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

front  of  the  hassock,  a  pillow  did  duty  as 
a  stout  dappled  pony. 

Her  father  drove.  And  she  sat  beside 
him,  holding  on  to  the  iron  bar  of  the  run- 
about seat  with  one  hand,  to  a  corner  of 
his  coat  with  the  other;  for  not  only  were 
the  turns  sharp  but  the  country  road  was 
uneven.  The  sun  was  just  rising  above 
the  forest,  and  it  warmed  her  little  back. 
The  fresh  breeze  caressed  her  cheeks  into 
crimson,  and  swirled  her  hair  about 
the  down-sloping  rim  of  her  wreath-en- 
circled hat.  That  breeze  brought  with 
it  the  perfume  of  opening  flowers,  the 
fragrance  exhaled  by  the  trees  along  the 
way,  the  essence  of  the  damp  ground 
stirred  by  hoof  and  wheel.  Gwendolyn 
breathed  through  nostrils  swelled  to  their 
widest. 

Following  the  drive  to  the  village 
came  the  trip  up  the  stream  to  trout-pools. 

171 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn's  father  led  the  way  with 
basket  and  reel.  She  trotted  at  his  heels. 
And  beside  Gwendolyn  trotted  Johnnie 
Blake. 

The  piano-seat  was  Johnnie.  His 
eyes  were  blue,  and  full  of  laughter.  His 
small  nose  was  as  freckled  as  Jane's. 
His  brown  hair  disposed  itself  in  several 
rough  heaps,  as  if  it  had  been  winnowed 
by  a  tiny  whirlwind. 

"  Good  -  morning,"  said  Gwendolyn, 
curtseying. 

"Hello!"  returned  Johnnie  —  while 
Gwendolyn  smiled  at  herself  in  the  pier- 
glass.  Johnnie  carried  a  long  willow 
fishing-pole  cut  from  the  stream-side. 
Reel  he  had  none,  nor  basket;  and  he  did 
not  own  a  belted  outing-suit  of  hunter' s- 
green,  and  high  buckled  boots.  He  wore 

a  plaid  gingham  waist,  starched  so  stiff 

172 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

that  its  round  collar  stood  up  and  tickled 
his  ears.  His  hat  was  of  straw,  and  some- 
what ragged.  His  brown  jeans  overalls, 
riveted  and  suspendered,  reached  to  bare 
ankles  fully  as  brown.  The  overalls 
were  provided  with  three  pockets.  Bulg- 
ing one  was  his  round  tin  drinking-cup 
which  was  full  of  worms. 

"Are  there  p'liceman  in  these  woods?" 
inquired  Gwendolyn. 

"Nope/'  said  Johnnie. 

"Are  there  bears?" 

"Nope." 

"Are  there  doctors?" 

"Nope.    But  there's  snakes — some." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  snakes.  I've  got 
one  at  home.  It's  long  and  black,  and 
it's  got  a  wooden  tongue." 

"Traid  to  go  barefoot?" 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  could!" 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Here  she  glanced  over  a  shoulder  to- 
ward the  school-room;  then  toward  the 
hall.  Did  she  dare? 

"Well,  you're  little  yet/'  explained 
Johnnie.  "But  just  you  wait  till  you 
grow  up." 

"Are — are  you  grown-up?" — a  trifle 
doubtfully. 

"Of  course,  I'm  grown  up!  Why,  I'm 
seven!9  Whereat  she  strode  up  and 
down,  hands  on  hips,  in  feeble  imitation 
of  Johnnie. 

But  here  the  inclination  for  further 
make-believe  died  utterly — at  a  point 
where,  usually,  Johnnie  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  triumphant  laugh,  gave  a 
squirrel-like  leap  into  the  air  (from  the 
top  of  the  nursery  table) ,  caught  the  lower 
branch  of  a  tall,  slim  tree  (the  chandelier) , 
and  swung  himself  to  and  fro  with  joy- 
ous abandon.  For  Gwendolyn  suddenly 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

remembered  the  cruel  truth  borne  out  by 
the  ink-line  on  the  pier-glass.  And  in- 
stead of  climbing  upon  the  table,  she  went 
to  stand  in  front  of  her  writing-desk. 

"I  was  seven  my  last  birthday,"  she 
murmured,  looking  up  at  the  rose- 
embossed  calendar. 

Seven,  and  grown-up — and  yet  every- 
thing was  just  the  same ! 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  knelt 
on  the  cushioned  seat.  Across  the  river 
red  smoke  was  pouring  up  from  those 
chimneys  on  the  water's  edge  that  were 
assuredly  a  mile  high.  Red  smoke  meant 
that  evening  was  approaching.  Jane 
would  enter  soon.  With  two  in  the  nurs- 
ery, the  advantage  was  for  her  who  did 
not  have  to  make  the  overtures  of  peace. 
She  turned  her  back  to  the  room. 

Jane  came.  She  drew  the  heavy  cur- 
tains at  the  side  window  and  busied  her- 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

self  in  the  vicinity  of  the  bed,  moving 
about  quietly,  saying  not  a  word.  Pres- 
ently she  went  out. 

Gwendolyn  faced  round.  The  bed  was 
arranged  for  the  night.  At  its  head,  on 
the  small  table,  was  a  glass  of  milk,  a 
sandwich,  a  cup  of  broth,  a  plate  of  cooked 
fruit. 

The  western  sky  faded — to  gray,  to  deep 
blue,  to  jade.  The  river  flowed  jade  be- 
neath. Along  it  the  lights  sprang  up. 
Then  came  the  stars. 

Gwendolyn  worked  at  the  buttons  of  her 
slippers.  The  tears  were  falling  again; 
but  not  tears  of  anger  or  resentment — 
only  of  loneliness,  of  yearning. 

The  little  white-and-blue  frock  fastened 
down  the  front.  She  undid  it,  weeping 
softly  the  while,  found  her  night-dress, 
put  it  on  and  climbed  into  bed. 

The  food  was  close  at  hand.  She  did 
176 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

not  touch  it.  She  was  not  hungry,  only 
worn  with  her  day-long  combat.  She  lay 
back  among  the  pillows.  And  as  she 
looked  up  at  the  stars,  each  sent  out  gay 
little  flashes  of  light  to  every  side. 

"Oh,  moth-er!"  she  mourned.  "Every- 
body hates  me!  Everybody  hates  me!" 

Then  came  a  comforting  thought: 
She  would  play  the  Dearest  Pretend ! 

It  was  easy  to  make  believe  that  a  girl- 
ish figure  was  seated  in  the  dark  beside  the 
bed ;  that  a  tender  face  was  bending  down, 
a  gentle  hand  touching  the  troubled  fore- 
head, stroking  the  tangled  hair. 

"Oh,  I  want  you  all  the  time,  moth-er! 
.  .  .  And  I  want  you,  my  precious 
baby.  .  .  .  How  much  do  you  love  me, 
moth-er?  .  .  .  Love  you? — oh,  big  as 
the  sky!  .  .  .  Dear  moth-er,  may  I  eat 
at  the  grown-up  table?  .  .  .  All  the 
time,  sweetheart.  .  .  .  Goody!  And 

177 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

we'll  just  let  Miss  Royle  eat  with  Jane 
and—5' 

She  caught  a  stealthy  rustle!  rustle! 
rustle!  from  the  direction  of  the  hall. 
She  spoke  more  low  then,  but  continued 
to  chatter,  her  pretend-conversation,  lov- 
ing, confidential,  and  consoling. 

Finally,  "Moth-er,"  she  plead,  "will 
you  please  sing?" 

She  sang.  Her  voice  was  husky  from 
crying.  More  than  once  it  quavered  and 
broke.  But  the  song  was  one  she  had 
heard  in  the  long,  raftered  living-room  at 
Johnnie  Blake's.  And  it  soothed. 

"Oh,  it  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine 

o-o-own, 

And  thy  cheek  is  unstained  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be 

kno-o-own — " 

It  grew  faint.  It  ended — in  a  long 
sigh.  Then  one  small  hand  in  the  gentle 
make-believe  grasp  of  another,  she  slept. 

"  178 


CHAPTER  VII 

TV/TISS  ROYLE  looked  sober  as  she 
sipped  her  orange-juice.  And  she 
cut  off  the  top  of  her  breakfast  egg  as 
noiselessly  as  possible.  Her  directions  to 
Thomas,  she  half-whispered,  or  merely 
signaled  them  by  a  wave  of  her  coffee- 
spoon.  Now  and  then  she  glanced  across 
the  room  to  the  white-and-gold  bed. 
Then  she  beamed  fondly. 

As  for  Thomas,  he  fairly  stole  from 
tray  to  table,  from  table  to  tray,  his  face 
all  concern.  Occasionally,  if  his  glance 
followed  Miss  Royle's,  he  smiled — a 
broad,  sympathetic  smile. 

And  Jane  was  subdued  and  solicitous. 
She  sat  beside  the  bed,  holding  a  small 

179 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

hand — which  from  time  to  time  she  patted 
encouragingly. 

After  the  storm,  calm.  The  more  tem- 
pestuous the  storm,  the  more  perfect  the 
calm.  This  was  the  rule  of  the  nursery. 
Gwendolyn,  lying  among  the  pillows, 
wished  she  could  always  feel  weak  and 
listless.  It  made  everyone  so  kind. 

"Thomas,"  said  Miss  Royle,  as  she 
folded  her  napkin  and  rustled  to  her  feet, 
"you  may  call  up  the  Riding  School  and 
say  that  Miss  Gwendolyn  will  not  ride  to- 
day." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And,  Jane,  you  may  go  out  for  the 
morning.  I  shall  stay  here." 

"Thanks,"  acknowledged  Jane,  in  a 
tone  quite  unusual  for  her.  She  did  not 
rise,  however,  but  waited,  striving  to  catch 

Thomas's  eye. 

180 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"And,  Thomas/'  went  on  the  governess, 
"when  would  you  like  an  hour?" 

Thomas  advanced  with  a  bow  of  appre- 
ciation. "If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  Miss 
Royle,"  said  he,  CT11  have  a  bit  of  an 
airin'  directly  after  supper  this  evenin'." 

Jane  glared. 

"Very  well/'  Miss  Royle  rustled  to- 
ward the  school-room,  taking  a  survey  of 
herself  in  the  pier-glass  as  she  went. 
"Jane,"  she  added,  "you  will  be  free  to 
go  in  half  an  hour."  She  threw  Gwen- 
dolyn a  loud  kiss. 

Thomas  was  directing  his  attention  to 
the  clearing  of  the  breakfast-table.  The 
moment  the  door  closed  behind  the  gov- 
erness, Jane  shot  up  from  her  chair  and 
advanced  upon  him. 

"You  ain't  treatin'  me  fair,"  she 
charged,  speaking  low,  but  breathing  fast. 

181 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"You  ain't  takin'  your  hours  off  duty 
along  with  me  no  more.  You're  givin'  me 
the  cold  shoulder." 

At  that,  Gwendolyn  turned  her  head  to 
look.  Of  late,  she  had  heard  not  a  few 
times  of  Thomas's  cold  shoulder — this  in 
heated  encounters  between  him  and  Jane. 
She  wondered  which  of  his  shoulders  was 
the  cold  one. 

Thomas  lifted  his  upper  lip  in  a  sneer. 
"Indeed!35  he  replied.  "I'm  not  treatin' 
you  fair?  Well/5  (with  meaning)  "I 
didn't  think  you  was  botherin'  your  head 
about  anybody — except  a  certain  police- 


man.' 


Back  jerked  Jane's  chin.  "Can't  I  have 
a  gentleman  friend?"  she  demanded  de- 
fensively. 

"Ha !  ha !  Gentleman  friend !"  Then, 
addressing  no  one  in  particular,  "My!  but 

don't  a  uniform  take  a  woman's  eye!" 

182 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Why,  Thomas!"  It  was  a  sorrowful 
protest.  "You  misjudge,  you  really  do!9 

So  far  there  was  no  fresh  element  in  the 
misunderstanding.  Thus  the  two  argued 
time  and  again.  Gwendolyn  almost  knew 
their  quarrel  by  heart. 

But  now  Thomas  came  round  upon  Jane 
with  a  snarl.  "You're  not  foolin'  me/' 
he  declared.  "Don't  you  think  I  know 
that  policeman's  heels  over  head?"  He 
shook  his  crumb-knife  at  her.  "Heels 
over  head!"  Then  seizing  the  tray  and 
swinging  it  up,  he  stalked  out. 

Jane  fell  to  pacing  the  floor.  Her  red- 
dish eyes  roved  angrily. 

Heels  over  head !  Gwendolyn,  ponder- 
ing, now  watched  the  nurse,  now  looked 
across  to  where,  on  its  shelf,  was  poised 
the  toy  somersault  man.  If  one  of  the 
uniformed  men  she  dreaded  was  heels  over 
head — 

183 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"But,  Jane." 

"Well?    Well?53 

"I  saw  the  p'liceman  walking  on  his  feet 
yesterday" 

"Hush  your  silly  talk!" 

Gwendolyn  hushed,  her  gray  eyes  wist- 
ful, her  mouth  drooping.  The  morning 
had  been  so  peaceful.  Now  Jane  had 
spoken  the  first  rough  word. 

Peace  returned  with  Miss  Royle,  who 
came  in  with  the  morning  paper,  dismissed 
Jane,  and  settled  down  in  the  upholstered 
chair,  silver-rimmed  spectacles  on  nose. 

The  brocade  hangings  of  the  front  win- 
dow were  only  partly  drawn.  Between 
them,  Gwendolyn  made  out  more  of  those 
fat  sheep  straying  down  the  azure  field 
of  the  sky.  She  lay  very  still  and  counted 
them;  and,  counting,  slept,  but  restlessly, 
with  eyes  only  half-shut  and  nervous 

starts. 

184 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Awakening  at  noon  the  listlessness  was 
gone,  and  she  felt  stronger.  Her  eyes 
were  bright,  too.  There  was  a  faint  color 
in  cheeks  and  lips. 

"Miss  Royle!" 

:'Yes,  darling?"  The  governess  leaned 
forward  attentively. 

"I  can  understand  why  you  call  Thomas 
a  footman.  It's  'cause  he  runs  around  so 
much  on  his  feet — " 

"You're  better/'  said  Miss  Royle.  She 
turned  her  paper  inside  out. 

"But  one  day  you  said  he  was  all  ears, 
and—" 

"Gwendolyn!"  Miss  Royle  stared 
down  over  her  glasses.  "Never  repeat 
what  you  hear  me  say,  love.  It's  tattling, 
and  tattling  is  ill-bred.  Now,  what  can 
I  give  you?" 

Gwendolyn  wanted  a  drink  of  water. 

When  Thomas  appeared  with  the  din- 
185 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ner-tray,  he  gave  an  impressive  wag  of  the 
head.  "What  do  you  think  I've  got  for 
you?"  he  asked — while  Miss  Royle 
propped  Gwendolyn  to  a  sitting  position. 

Gwendolyn  did  not  try  to  guess.  She 
was  not  interested.  She  had  no  appetite. 

Thomas  brought  forward  a  silver  dish. 
"It's  a  bird!"  he  announced,  and  lifted  the 
cover. 

Gwendolyn  looked. 

It  was  a  small  bird,  richly  browned.  A 
tiny  sprig  of  parsley  garnished  it  on  either 
side.  A  ribbon  of  bacon  lay  in  crisp 
flutings  across  it.  Its  short  round  legs 
were  up-thrust.  On  the  end  of  each  was 
a  paper  frill. 

"Don't  it  look  delicious!"  said  Thomas 
warmly.  "Don't  it  tempt!" 

But  Gwendolyn  regarded  it  without  en- 
thusiasm. "What  kind  of  a  bird  is  it?" 

she  asked. 

186 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Thomas  displayed  a  second  dish — Ber- 
muda potatoes  the  size  of  her  own  small 
fist.  "Who  knows?"  said  he.  "It  might 
be  a  robin,  it  might  be  a  plover,  it  might  be 
a  quail." 

"It  might  be  a — a  talking-bird,"  said 
Gwendolyn.  She  poked  the  bird  with  a 
fork. 

"Not  likely,"  declared  Thomas. 

Gwendolyn  turned  away. 

"Ain't  it  to  your  likin"?"  asked  Thomas, 
surprised.  He  did  not  take  the  plate  at 
once,  in  his  usual  fashion. 

"I — I  don't  want  anything,"  she  de- 
clared. 

"Oh,  but  maybe  you'd  fancy  an  egg/' 

Gwendolyn  took  a  glass  of  water. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  said  Miss  Royle. 
When  she  resigned  her  place  presently, 
she  talked  to  Jane  in  undertones, — so  that 
Gwendolyn  could  hear  only  disconnect- 

187 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

edly:  ".  .  .  Think  it  would  be  the  safest 
thing  .  .  .  she  gets  any  worse.  .  .  . 
Never  do,  Jane  .  .  .  find  out  by  them- 
selves. .  .  .  She  won't  be  home  till  late 
to-night  .  .  .  some  grand  affair.  But  he 
.  .  .  though  of  course  I'm  sorry  to  have 
to." 

The  moment  Miss  Royle  was  well  away, 
Jane  had  a  plan.  "7  think  you're  gittin' 
on  so  fine  that  you  can  hop  up  and  dress," 
she  declared,  noting  how  the  gray  eyes 
sparkled,  and  how  pink  were  the  round 
spots  on  Gwendolyn's  cheeks. 

Gwendolyn  had  nothing  to  say. 

Jane  ran  to  the  wardrobe  and  took  out 
a  dress.  It  was  a  new  one,  of  cream-white 
wool;  and  on  a  sleeve,  as  well  as  on  the 
corners  of  the  sailor  collar  and  the  tips 
of  the  broad  tie,  scarlet  anchors  were  em- 
broidered. 

Gwendolyn  smiled.  But  it  was  not  the 
188 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

anchors  that  charmed  forth  the  smile.  It 
was  a  pocket,  set  like  a  shield  on  the  blouse 
— an  adorable  patch-pocket ! 

"Oh!"  she  cried;  "did  They  make  me 
that  pocket?  Jane,  how  sweet!" 

"One,  two,  three,"  said  Jane,  briskly, 
"and  we'll  have  this  on !  Let's  see  by  the 
clock  how  quick  you  can  jump  into  it!" 

The  clock  was  a  familiar  method  of  in- 
ducing Gwendolyn  to  do  hastily  some- 
thing she  had  not  thought  of  doing  at  all. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  it'd  do  you  good,  pettie," — this 
coaxingly. 

"It's  too  warm  to  dress,"  said  Gwen- 
dolyn. 

Jane  flung  the  garment  back  into  the 
wardrobe  without  troubling  to  hang  it  up, 
and  banged  the  wardrobe  door.  But  she 
did  not  again  broach  the  subject  of  getting 
up.  A  hint  of  uneasiness  betrayed  itself 

189 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

in  her  manner.  She  took  a  chair  by  the 
bed. 

Gwendolyn's  whole  face  was  gradually 
taking  on  a  deep  flush,  for  those  flaming 
spots  on  her  cheeks  were  spreading  to 
throat  and  temples — to  her  very  hair.  She 
kept  her  hands  in  constant  motion.  Next, 
the  small  tongue  began  to  babble  uninter- 
ruptedly. 

It  was  the  overlively  talking  that  made 
Jane  certain  that  Gwendolyn  was  ill. 
She  leaned  to  feel  of  the  busy  hands,  the 
throbbing  forehead.  Then  she  hastily 
telephoned  Thomas. 

"Have  we  any  more  of  that  quietin' 
medicine?"  she  asked  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

"It's  all  gone.    Why?5 

The  two  forgot  their  differences,  and 
bent  over  Gwendolyn. 

She  smiled  up,  and  nodded.  "All  the 
190 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

clouds  in  the  sky  are  filled  with  wind/'  she 
declared;  "like  automobile  tires.  Toy- 
balloons  are,  I  know.  Once  I  put  a  pin 
in  one,  and  the  wind  blew  right  out.  I 
s'pose  the  clouds  in  the  South  hold  the 
south  wind,  and  the  clouds  in  the  North 
hold  the  north  wind,  and  the  clouds — " 

"Jane,"  said  Thomas,  "we've  got  to 
have  a  doctor." 

Gwendolyn  heard.  She  saw  Jane 
spring  to  the  telephone.  The  next  in- 
stant, with  a  piercing  scream  that  sent  her 
canary  fluttering  to  the  top  of  its  cage,  she 
flung  herself  sidewise. 

"Jane!  Oh,  don't!  Jane!  He'll  kill 
me!  Jane!" 

Jane  fell  back,  and  caught  Gwendolyn 
in  her  arms.  The  little  figure  was  all  a- 
tremble,  both  small  hands  were  beating 
the  air  in  wild  protest. 

"Jane!  Oh,  I'll  be  good!  I'll  be 
191 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

good!"  She  hid  her  face  against  the 
nurse,  shuddering. 

"But  you're  sick,  lovie.  And  a  doctor 
would  make  you  well.  There!  There! 
Listen  to  Jane,  dearie/' 

Thomas  laid  an  anxious  hand  on  the  yel- 
low head.  "The  doctor  won't  hurt  you/' 
he  declared.  "He  only  gives  bread-pills, 
anyhow." 

"No-o-o!"  She  flung  herself  back  upon 
the  bed,  catching  at  the  pillows  as  if  to 
hide'  beneath  them,  writhing  pitifully, 
moaning,  beseeching  with  terrified  eyes. 

Jane  and  Thomas  stared  helplessly  at 
each  other,  their  faces  guilty  and  fright- 
ened. 

"Dearie!"  cried  Jane;  "hush  and  we 
won't —  Oh,  Thomas,  I'm  fairly  dis- 
tracted!— Pettie,  we  won't  have  the  doc- 
tor." 

Gradually  Gwendolyn  quieted.    Then 
192 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

carefully,  and  by  degrees,  Jane  ap- 
proached the  matter  of  medical  aid  in  a 
new  way. 

"We'll  just  telephone,"  she  declared. 
"We  wont  let  any  old  doctor  come  here 
— not  a  bit  of  it.  We'll  ask  him  to  send 
something.  Is  that  all  right.  Please^ 
darlin'." 

Reluctantly,  Gwendolyn  yielded. 
"The  medicine'll  be  awful  nasty,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

To  that  Jane  made  no  reply  Her  every 
freckle  was  standing  out  clearly.  Her 
reddish  eyes  bulged.  She  hunted  a  num- 
ber in  the  telephone-directory  with  fum- 
bling fingers.  After  which  she  held  the 
receiver  to  her  ear  with  a  shaking  hand. 
"Everything's  goin'  wrong/'  she  mourned. 

Huddled  into  a  little  ball,  and  still  as 
a  frightened  bird,  Gwendolyn  listened  to 
the  message. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Hello!  .  .  .  Hello!  Is  this  the  Doc- 
tor speakin'  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  this  is  Miss  Gwen- 
dolyn's nurse,  sir.  .  .  .  Tes,  sir.  Well, 
Miss  Gwendolyn's  a  little  nervous  to-day, 
sir.  Not  sick  enough  to  call  you  in,  sir. 
.  .  .  But  I  was  goin'  to  ask  if  you  couldn't 
send  something  soothin'.  She's  been  cryin' 
like,  that's  all.  .  .  .  Yes,  sir,  and  wake- 
ful—" 

"A  little  hysterical  yesterday,"  prompted 
Thomas,  in  a  low  voice. 

"A  little  hysterical  yesterday,"  went  on 
Jane.  ".  .  .  Yes,  sir,  by  messenger.  .  .  . 
I'll  be  most  careful,  sir.  .  .  .  Thank  you, 


sir." 


Jane  and  Thomas  combined  to  make  the 
remainder  of  the  afternoon  less  dull. 
One  by  one  the  favorite  toys  came  down 
from  the  second  shelf.  And  a  miniature 
circus  took  place  on  the  rug  beside  the  bed 

194 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

— a  circus  in  which  each  toy  played  a  part. 
Gwendolyn's  fear  was  charmed  away. 
She  laughed,  and  drank  copious  draughts 
of  water — delicious  bubbling  water  that 
Thomas  poured  from  tall  bottles. 

Jane  had  her  own  supper  beside  the 
white-and-gold  bed — coffee  and  a  sand- 
wich only.  Gwendolyn  still  had  no  ap- 
petite, but  seemed  almost  her  usual  self 
once  more.  So  much  so  that  when  she 
asked  questions,  Jane  was  cross,  and  coun- 
seled immediate  sleep. 

"But  I'm  not  a  bit  sleepy,"  declared 
Gwendolyn.  "It'll  be  moonlight  after 
while,  Jane.  May  I  look  out  at  the  Down- 
Town  roofs?" 

"You  may  stop  your  botherinY'  re- 
torted Jane,  "and  make  up  your  mind  to 
go  to  sleep.  You've  give  me  a'  awful 
day.  Now  try  just  forty  winks." 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Why  do  you  always  say  forty?"  in- 
quired Gwendolyn.  "Couldn't  I  take 
forty-one?" 

"Hush!" 

After  supper  came  the  medicine — a  dark 
liquid.  Gwendolyn  eyed  it  anxiously. 
Thomas  was  gone.  Jane  opened  the  bot- 
tle and  measured  a  teaspoonful  into  a 
drinking-glass. 

"Do  I  have  to  take  it  now?"  asked 
Gwendolyn. 

"To-morrow  you'll  wake  up  as  good  as 
new,"  asserted  Jane.  She  touched  her 
tongue  with  the  spoon,  then  smacked  her 
lips.  "Why,  dearie,  it's — " 

She  was  interrupted.  From  the  direc- 
tion of  the  side  window  there  came  a  burst 
of  instrumental  music.  With  it,  singing 
the  words  of  a  waltz  from  a  popular  opera, 
blended  a  thin,  cracked  voice. 

Before  Jane  could  put  out  a  restraining 
196 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

hand,  Gwendolyn  bounced  to  her  knees. 
"Oh,  it's  the  old  hand-organ  man!55  she 
cried.  "It's  the  old  hand-organ  man! 
Oh,  where's  some  money?  I  want  to  give 
him  some  money!" 

Jane  threw  up  both  hands  wildly.  "Oh5 
did  I  ever  have  such  luck!53  she  exclaimed. 
Then,  between  her  teeth,  and  pressing 
Gwendolyn  back  upon  the  pillows,  "You 
lay  down  or  I'll  shake  you !" 

"Oh,  please  let  him  stay  just  this  time!" 
begged  Gwendolyn;  "I  like  him,  Jane!" 

"I'll  stay  him!"  promised  Jane,  grimly. 
She  marched  to  the  side  window,  threw 
up  the  sash  and  leaned  out.  "Here,  you !" 
she  called  down  roughly.  "You  git!" 

"Oh,  Jane!"  plead  Gwendolyn. 

The  thin,  cracked  voice  fell  silent.  The 
waltz  slowed  its  tempo,  then  came  to  a 
gasping  stop. 

"How's  a  body  to  git  a  child  asleep  with 
197 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

that  old  wheeze  of  yours  goin'?"  de- 
manded Jane.  "We  don't  want  you  here. 
Move  along  I" 

"He  could  play  me  to  sleep/'  protested 
Gwendolyn. 

A  reply  to  Jane's  order  was  shrilled  up 
— something  defiant. 

"He'd  only  excite  you,  darlin',"  de- 
clared Jane.  She  was  on  her  knees  at  the 
window,  and  turned  her  head  to  speak. 
"I  can't  have  that  rumpus  in  the  street 
with  you  so  nervous." 

Gwendolyn  sighed. 

"Take  your  medicine,  dearie/5  went  on 
Jane.  She  stayed  where  she  was. 

Promptly,  Gwendolyn  sat  up  and 
reached  for  the  glass.  To  hold  it,  to  shake 
it  about  and  potter  in  the  strange  liquid 
with  a  spoon,  would  be  some  compensa- 
tion for  having  to  drink  it. 

"If  that  mean  old  creature  didn't  make 
198 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

faces!"  grumbled  Jane.    She  was  leaning 
forward  to  look  out. 

"How  did  he  make  faces,  Jane?"  asked 
Gwendolyn.  "Were  they  nice  ones?" 
She  lifted  the  glass  to  take  a  whiff  of  its 
contents.  "I'd  like  to  see  him  make  faces." 

She  put  the  spoon  into  Jane's  half- 
empty  coffee-cup;  then  let  the  medicine 
run  up  the  side  of  the  glass  until  it  was 
almost  to  her  lips.  She  tasted  it.  It 
tasted  good!  She  hesitated  a  second; 
then  drained  the  glass. 

The  street  was  quiet.  Jane  rose  to  her 
feet  and  came  over.  "Did  you  do  as  I 
said?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Jane." 

"Now,  did  you?"  Jane  picked  up  the 
glass,  looked  into  it,  then  at  Gwendolyn. 
"Honest?" 

'Yes, — every  sip." 

"Gwendolyn?"    Jane    held    her    with 
199 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

doubting    eyes.     "I    don't    believe    it!" 

"But  I  did?' 

Jane  bent  down  to  the  cup,  sniffed  it, 
then  smelled  of  the  glass. 

"Gwendolyn,"  she  said  solemnly,  "I 
know  you  did  not  take  your  medicine. 
You  poured  it  into  this  cup." 

"But  I  <&/*'//" 

"I  seen.9'  Jane  pointed  an  accusing 
finger. 

"How  could  you?"  demanded  Gwen- 
dolyn. "You  were  looking  at  the  brick 
house." 

"I've  got  eyes  in  the  back  of  my  head. 
And  I  seen  you  plain  when  I  was  lookin' 
straight  the  other  way." 

"A-a-aw!"  laughed  Gwendolyn,  skepti- 
cally. 

"They're  hid  by  my  braids,"  went  on 
Jane,  "but  they're  there.  And  I  seen  you 
throw  away  that  medicine,  you  bad  girl!" 

200 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Again  she  leaned  to  examine  the  coffee- 
cup. 

"Miss  Royle  said  you  had  two  faces/' 
admitted  Gwendolyn.  She  stared  hard  at 
the  coiled  braids  on  the  back  of  Jane's 
head.  The  braids  were  pinned  close  to- 
gether. No  pair  of  eyes  was  visible. 

Jane  straightened  resolutely,  seized  the 
medicine-bottle  and  the  spoon,  poured  out 
a  second  dose,  and  proffered  it.  "Come, 
now !"  she  said  firmly.  "You  ain't  a-goin' 
to  git  ahead  of  me  with  your  cuteness. 
Take  this,  and  go  to  sleep." 

"Bu-but— " 

That  moment  a  shrill  whistle  sounded 
from  the  street. 

''There  now!55  cried  Jane,  triumphantly. 
"The  policeman's  right  here.  I  can  call 
him  up  whenever  I  like." 

Gwendolyn  drank. 

Jane  tossed  the  spoon  aside,  corked  the 
20 1 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

bottle  and  went  back  to  the  open  window. 
"You  go  to  sleep/'  she  commanded. 

Gwendolyn,  lying  flat,  was  murmuring 
to  herself.  "Oo-oo!  How  funny!"  she 
said.  "Oo-oo!" 

"Now,  don't  let  me  hear  another  word 
out  of  you!"  warned  Jane. 

Gwendolyn  turned  her  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side.  A  great  light  of  some 
kind  was  flaming  against  her  eyes — a  light 
shot  through  and  through  with  black, 
whirling  balls.  Where  did  it  come  from? 

It  stayed.  And  grew.  Her  eyes  wid- 
ened with  wonderment.  A  smile  curved 
her  lips. 

Then  suddenly  she  rose  to  a  sitting  pos- 
ture, threw  out  both  arms,  and  gave  a  lit- 
tle choking  cry. 


202 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FT  was  a  cry  of  amazement.    For  sud- 

denly — so  suddenly  that  she  did  not 

have  time  to  think  how  it  had  happened 

—she  found  herself  up  and  dressed,  and 

standing  alone,  gazing  about  her,  in  the 

open  air! 

But  there  were  no  high  buildings  on  any 
side,  no  people  passing  to  and  fro,  no 
motor-cars  flashing  by.  And  the  grass  un- 
derfoot was  not  the  grass  of  a  lawn,  evenly 
cut  and  flowerless;  it  was  tall,  so  that  it 
brushed  the  hem  of  her  dress,  and  blossom- 
dotted. 

She  looked  up  at  the  sky.  It  was  not  the 
sky  of  the  City,  distant,  and  marbled  with 
streaks  of  smoke.  It  was  close  and  clear; 

starless,  too;  and  no  moon  hung  upon  it. 

203 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Yet  though  it  was  night  there  was  light 
everywhere — warm,  glowing,  roseate. 

By  that  radiant  glow  she  saw  that  she 
was  in  the  midst  of  trees !  Some  were  tall 
and  slender  and  clean-barked ;  others  were 
low  and  thick  of  trunk,  but  with  the  wide 
shapely  spread  of  the  great  banyan  in  her 
geography;  and,  towering  above  the  others, 
were  the  giants  of  that  forest,  unevenly 
branched,  misshapen,  aslant,  and  rugged 
with  wart-like  burls. 

"Is — is  this  the  Park?"  she  said  aloud, 
still  looking  around.  "Or — or  the  woods 
across  the  River?" 

But  there  was  no  sign  of  a  paved  walk, 
such  as  traced  patterns  through  the  Park; 
nor  of  a  chimney,  to  mark  the  whereabouts 
of  a  house.  Behind  her  the  ground  sloped 
gently  up  to  a  wooded  rise ;  in  front  of  her 
it  sloped  as  gently  down  to  the  edge  of  a 

narrow,  noisy  mountain  stream. 

204 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Why,  I'm  at  Johnnie  Blake's!"  she 
cried — then  glanced  over  a  shoulder  cau- 
tiously. If  this  were  indeed  the  place  she 
had  longed  to  revisit,  it  would  be  advisa- 
ble to  keep  as  quiet  as  possible,  lest  some- 
one should  hear  her,  and  straightway  come 

to  take  her  home. 

*       •..' 

Still  watching  backward  apprehen- 
sively, she  pushed  through  the  grass  to  the 
edge  of  the  stream. 

The  moment  she  reached  it  she  knew 
that  it  was  not  the  trout-stream  along 
which  she  had  wandered  while  her  father 
fished.  It  was,  in  fact,  not  ordinary  water 
at  all,  but  something  lighter,  more  spar- 
kling with  color,  swifter,  and  louder.  It 
effervesced,  so  that  a  creamy  mist  lay 
along  its  surface — this  the  smoke  of  burst- 
ing bubbles.  It  was  like  the  bottled  water 
she  drank  at  her  nursery  meals ! 

Hands  clasped,  she  leaned  to  stare 
205 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

down.  "Isn't  it  funny!"  she  exclaimed 
half  under  her  breath. 

A  voice  answered  her — from  close  at 
hand.  It  was  a  thin,  cracked  voice. 
"This  is  where  They  get  their  soda-water/' 
it  said. 

She  turned,  and  saw  him. 

He  was  a  queer  little  old  thick-set,  dark- 
skinned  gentleman,  with  grizzled  whis- 
kers, a  ragged  hat  and  baggy  trousers. 
His  eyes  were  round  and  black  under  his 
brows,  which  were  square  and  long-haired, 
and  not  unlike  a  certain  new  hand-brush 
that  Jane  wielded  of  a  morning  across 
Gwendolyn's  small  finger-tips.  Over  one 
shoulder,  by  a  strap,  hung  a  dark  box,  half- 
hidden  by  a  piece  of  old  carpet.  In  one 
hand  he  held  a  huge,  curved  knife. 

Though  she  could  not  remember  ever 
having  seen  him  at  Johnnie  Blake's;  and 

though  the  curved  knife  was  in  pattern 

206 


"IN  ONE  HAND  HE  HELD  A  HUGE,  CURVED  KNIFE" 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  true  type  of  a  kidnaper's  weapon,  and 
the  look  out  of  those  round,  dark  eyes,  as 
he  strode  toward  her,  was  not  at  all 
friendly,  she  did  not  scamper  away.  She 
waited,  her  heart  beating  hard.  When  he 
halted,  she  curtsied. 

"I've — I've  always  wondered  about 
soda-water,"  she  faltered,  trying  to  smile. 
"But  when  I  asked—" 

"Um!"  he  grunted;  then,  with  a  side- 
wise  jerk  of  the  head,  "Take  a  drink." 

She  lifted  eager  eyes.  "All  I  want  to?" 
she  half-whispered. 

He  nodded.    "Sip!    Lap!    Tipple!" 

"Oo!"  Fairly  beaming  with  delight, 
she  knelt  down.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  could  have  all  the  soda-water  she 
wanted ! 

First,  she  put  the  tip  of  one  finger  into 
the  rushing  sparkle,  slowly,  to  lengthen 
out  her  joy.  Next,  with  a  little  laugh,  she 

207 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

sank  her  whole  hand.  Bubbles  formed 
upon  it, — all  sizes  of  them — standing  out 
like  dewdrops  upon  leaves.  The  bubbles 
cooled.  And  tempted  her  thirst.  With  a 
deep  breath,  she  bent  forward  until  her  red 
mouth  touched  the  shimmering  surface. 
Thus,  lying  prone,  with  arms  spread  wide, 
she  drank  deep  of  the  flow. 

When  she  straightened  and  sat  back 
upon  her  heels,  she  made  an  astonishing 
discovery:  The  trees  that  studded  the 
slope  were  not  covered  with  leaves,  like 
ordinary  trees!  Each  branched  to  hold 
lights — myriads  of  lights !  Some  of  these 
shone  steadily;  others  burned  with  a  hiss- 
ing sound;  others  were  silent  enough,  but 
rose  and  fell,  jumped  and  flickered.  It 
was  these  countless  lights  that  illumed  the 
forest  like  a  pink  sun. 

She  rose.  There  was  wonder  in  the  gray 
208 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

eyes.  "Are  these  Christmas  trees?"  she 
said.  "Where  am  I?" 

"You've  had  your  soda-water/'  he  an- 
swered shortly.  "You  ought  to  know." 

"Yes,  I — I  ought  to  know.  But — I 
don't." 

He  grunted. 

"I  s'pose,"  she  ventured  timidly,  "that 
nobody  ever  answers  questions  here, 
either." 

He  looked  uncomfortable.  "Yes,"  he 
retorted,  "everybody  does." 

"Then," — advancing  an  eager  step — 
"why  don'  tyou?" 

He  mopped  his  forehead.  "Well — 
well — if  I  must,  I  must :  This  is  where  all 
the  lights  go  when  they're  put  out  at 
night." 

"Oh!"  And  now  as  she  glanced  from 
tree  to  tree  she  saw  that  what  he  had  said 

209 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

was  true.  For  the  greater  part  of  the 
lights  were  electric  bulbs ;  while  many  were 
gas-jets,  and  a  few  kerosene-flames. 

Still  marveling,  her  look  chanced  to  fall 
upon  herself.  And  she  found  that  she  was 
not  wearing  a  despised  muslin  frock !  Her 
dress  was  gingham! — an  adorable  plaid 
with  long  sleeves,  and  a  patch-pocket  low 
down  on  the  right  side ! 

:cYou  darling!"  she  exclaimed  happily, 
and  thrust  a  hand  into  the  pocket.  "I 
guess  They  made  it!" 

Next  she  looked  down  at  her  feet — and 
could  scarcely  believe!  She  had  on  no 
stockings !  She  did  not  even  have  on  slip- 
pers. She  was  barefoot! 

Then,  still  fearful  that  there  was  some 
mistake  about  it  all,  she  put  a  hand  to  her 
head;  and  found  her  hair-bow  gone!  In 
its  place,  making  a  small  floppy  double 
knot,  was  a  length  of  black  shoe-string ! 

210 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  goody!"  she  cried. 

"Urn!"  grunted  the  little  old  gentle- 
man. "And  you  can  play  in  the  water  if 
you'd  like  to." 

That  needed  no  urging!  She  was  face 
about  on  the  instant. 

From  the  standpoint  of  messing  the 
soda-stream  was  ideal.  It  brawled  around 
flat  rocks,  set  at  convenient  jumping-dis- 
tances  from  one  another.  (She  leaped 
promptly  to  one  of  these  and  sopped  her 
handkerchief.)  It  circled  into  sand-bot- 
tomed pools  just  shallow  enough  for  wad- 
ing; and  from  the  pools,  it  spread  out 
thinly  to  thread  the  grass,  thus  giving  her 
an  opportunity  for  squashing — a  diverting 
pastime  consisting  in  squirting  equal  parts 
of  water  and  soil  ticklishly  through  the 
toes.  She  hopped  from  rock  to  pool;  she 
splashed  from  pool  to  long,  wet,  muddy 
grass. 

211 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

It  was  the  water-play  that  brought  the 
realization  of  all  her  new  good-fortune— 
the  being  out  of  doors  and  plainly  clad; 
free  from  the  espionage  of  a  governess; 
away  from  the  tyranny  of  a  motor-car; 
barefoot;   and — chief  blessing  of  all!- 
nurseless. 

Forgetting  the  little  old  gentleman,  in  a 
sudden  excess  of  glee  she  seized  a  stick  and 
bestrode  it;  seized  another  and  belabored 
the  quarters  of  a  stout  dappled  pony; 
pranced,  reared,  kicked  up  her  wet  feet, 
shied  wildly — 

Then,  both  sticks  cast  aside,  she  began 
to  dance;  at  first  with  deliberation,  hold- 
ing out  the  gingham  dress  at  either  side, 
and  mincing  through  the  steps  taught  by 
Monsieur  Tellegen.  But  gradually  she 
forsook  rhythm  and  measure;  capering 
ceased;  the  dance  became  fast  and  furious. 
Hallooing,  she  raced  hither  and  thither 

212 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

among  the  trees,  tossing  her  arms,  darting 
down  at  the  flowers  and  flinging  them 
high,  swishing  her  yellow  hair  from  side 
to  side,  leaping  exultantly  toward  the 
lights,  pivoting — 

Suddenly  she  found  that  she  was  dan- 
cing to  music! — not  the  laboriously 
strummed  notes  of  a  piano,  such  as  were 
beaten  out  by  the  firm-striding  Miss 
Brown;  not  the  clamorous,  deafening, 
tuneless  efforts  of  an  orchestra.  This  was 
real  music — inviting,  inspiring,  heavenly ! 

It  was  a  hand-organ ! 

She  halted,  spell-bound.  He  was 
playing,  turning  the  crank  with  a  swift, 
steady  motion,  his  ragged  hat  tipped  to  one 
side. 

Now  she  understood  the  box  hanging 
from  its  strap.  She  danced  up  to  him,  and 
held  out  a  hand.  "Why,  you're  the  hand- 


213 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

organ    man!"    she    panted    breathlessly. 
"And  you  got  here  as  quick  as  I  did!" 

He  stopped  playing.  "I'm  the  hand- 
organ  man  when  I'm  in  town/'  he  cor- 
rected. "Here,  in  the  Land  of  the  Lights, 
I'm  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces." 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces!  She 
looked  at  him  with  new  interest.  "Why, 
of  course  you  are,"  she  acknowledged. 
"Sometimes  you  make  'em  in  town." 

"Sometimes  in  town  I  make  an  ugly 
one,"  he  retorted.  Whereupon  he  shoul- 
dered the  hand-organ,  grasped  the  curved 
knife,  and  started  away.  As  he  walked, 
he  called  aloud  to  every  side,  like  a  huck- 
ster. 

"Here's  where  you  get  your  ears  sharp- 
ened!" he  sang.  "Ears  sharpened!  Eyes 
sharpened !  Edges  taken  off  of  tongues !" 

She  trotted  beside  him,  head  up,  gray 

eyes  wide,  lips  parted.    He  was  ascending 

214 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

a  gentle  rise  toward  a  low  hill  not  far  dis- 
tant. As  she  drew  away  from  the  stream 
and  the  glade,  she  heard,  from  somewhere 
far  behind*  a  shrill  voice.  It  called  a 
name — a  name  strangely  familiar.  She 
paid  no  heed. 

At  the  summit  of  the  little  hill,  under 
some  trees,  he  paused,  and  waved  the  kid- 
naper knife  in  circles.  "Ears  to  sharpen !" 
he  shrilled  again.  "Eyes  to  sharpen! 
Edges  taken  off  of  tongues!" 

She  smiled  up  at  him  engagingly,  noting 
how  his  gray  hair  hung  over  the  back  of 
his  collar.  She  felt  no  fear  of  him  what- 
ever. "I  think  you're  nice,  Mr.  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces,"  she  announced  pres- 
ently. "I'm  so  glad  I  can  look  straight  at 
you.  I  didn't  know  you,  'cause  your  voice 
is  different,  and  'cause  I'd  never  seen  you 
before  'cept  when  I  was  looking  down  at 
you." 

215 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

He  had  been  ignoring  her.  But  now, 
" Wasn't  my  fault  that  we  didn't  meet  face 
to  face/'  he  retorted.  Though  his  voice 
was  still  cross,  his  round,  bright,  eyes  were 
almost  kind.  "If  you' 11.  remember  I  often 
came  under  your  window." 

"And  I  threw  you  money,"  she  answered, 
nodding  brightly.  "I  wanted  to  come 
down  and  talk  to  you,  oh,  lots  of  times, 
only—" 

At  that,  he  relented  altogether.  And, 
reaching  out,  shook  hands  cordially. 
"Wouldn't  you  like,"  said  he,  "to  have 
a  look  at  my  establishment?"  He  jerked 
a  thumb  over  a  shoulder.  "Here's  where 
I  make  faces." 

In  the  City  she  had  seen  many  wonder- 
ful shops,  catching  glimpses  of  some  from 
the  little  window  of  her  car,  visiting  others 
with  Miss  Royle  or  Jane.  Among  the 

former  were  those  fascinating  ones,  usu- 

216 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ally  low  of  ceiling  and  dark  with  coal-dust, 
where  grimy  men  in  leather  aprons  tried 
shoes  on  horses;  and  those  horrifying 
places  past  which  she  always  drove  with 
closed  eyes — places  where,  scraped  white 
and  head  downward,  hung  little  pigs,  piti- 
ful husks  of  what  they  once  had  been, 
flanked  on  either  hand  by  long-necked  tur- 
keys with  poor  glazed  eyes;  and  once  she 
had  seen  a  wonderful  shop  in  which  men 
were  sawing  out  flat  pieces  of  stone,  and 
writing  words  on  them  with  chisels. 

But  this  shop  of  the  Man-Who-Makes 
Faces  was  the  most  interesting  of  all. 

It  occupied  a  square  of  hard-packed 
ground — a  square  as  broad  as  the 
nursery.  And  curiously  enough,  like 
the  nursery,  it  had,  marking  it  off  all 
the  way  around  its  outer  edge,  a  border 
of  flowers ! 

It  was  shaded  by  one  huge  tree. 

217 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Lime-tree/5  explained  the  little  old 
gentleman.  "And  the  lights — " 

"Don't  tell  me!"  she  cried.  "I  know! 
They're  lime  lights/' 

These  made  the  shop  exceedingly  bright. 
Full  in  their  glare,  neatly  disposed,  were 
two  short-legged  tables,  a  squat  stool,  and 
a  high,  broad  bill-board. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  seated 
himself  on  the  stool  at  one  of  the  tables 
and'  began  working  industriously. 

But  Gwendolyn  could  only  stand  and 
stare  about  her,  so  amazed  that  she  was 
dumb.  For  in  front  of  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman, and  spread  handily,  were  ears  and 
eyes,  noses  and  mouths,  cheeks  and  chins 
and  foreheads.  And  upon  the  bill-board, 
pendant,  were  toupees  and  side-burns 
and  mustaches,  puffs,  transformations  and 
goatees — and  one  coronet  braid  (a  red 

one)  glossy  and  thick  and  handsome! 

218 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  bill-board  also  held  an  assortment 
of  tongues — long  and  scarlet.  These,  a 
score  in  all,  were  ranged  in  a  shining  row. 
And  underneath  them  was  a  sign  which 
bore  this  announcement: 

tongues  In  All  Languages 
Dead  or  Modern 

Chic  if  Seven 
Are  Purchased  at  Once. 

Gwendolyn  clapped  her  hands.  "Oo! 
how  nice!"  she  exclaimed,  finding  her 
voice  again. 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  little  old  gentle- 
man, shoving  away  a  tray  of  chins  and 
cheeks  and  reaching  for  a  forehead.  "Wel- 
come, convenient,  and  satisfactory/5 

She  saw  her  opportunity.  "Please,"  she 
began,  "I'd  like  to  buy  six."  She  counted 
on  her  fingers.  "I'll  have  a  French 
tongue,  a  German  tongue,  a  Greek  tongue, 

219 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

a  Latin  tongue,  and — later,  though,  if  you 
don't  happen  to  have  'em  on  hand — a 
Spanish  and  an  Italian."  Then  she 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "I'm  glad  I  saw 
these,"  she  added.  "They'll  save  me  a  lot 
of  work.  And  they've  helped  me  about 
a  def'nition.  I  looked  for  'lashing'  in  my 
big  dictionary.  And  it  said  cto  whip.' 
But  /  couldn't  see  how  anybody  could 
whip  anybody  else  with  a  tongue.  Now, 
though — " 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  nodded. 
"Just  wait  till  you  see  the  King's  Eng- 
lish," he  bragged. 

"The  King's  English?  Will  I  see 
him?" 

"Likely  to,"  he  answered,  selecting  an 
eye.  He  had  all  his  eyes  about  him  in  a 
circle,  each  looking  as  natural  as  life. 
There  were  blue  eyes  and  brown  eyes, 

hazel  eyes  and— 

220 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 


"Ah!"  she  exclaimed  suddenly.  "I  re- 
member !  It  was  you  who  gave  the  Police- 
man a  black  eye!" 

"One  fine  black  eye/'  he  answered, 
chuckling  as  he  poked  about  in  a  pile  of 
noses  and  selected  a  large-sized  one. 
"Yes!  Yes!  And  recently  I  made  a 
lovely  blue  pair  for  a  bad-tempered  child 
who'd  cried  her  own  eyes  out/' 

She  assented.  She  had  heard  of  just 
such  a  case.  "Once  I  saw  some  eyes  in  a 
shop-window/'  she  confided.  "It  was  a 
shop  where  you  could  buy  spectacles." 

He  wagged  his  beard  proudly.  "I  made 
every  one  of  'em!"  he  boasted.  "Oh,  yes, 
indeed."  And  polished  away  at  the  tip  of 
the  large  nose. 

She  considered  for  a  moment.  "I'm 
glad  I  know,"  she  said  gravely.  "I  wanted 
to,  awful  much." 

After  that  she  studied  the  bill-board  for 
221 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

a  time.  And  presently  discovered  that  a 
second  supply  of  eyes  was  displayed  there, 
being  set  in  it  as  jewels  are  set  in 
brooches ! 

She  pointed.     "What  kind  are  those?" 

He  looked  surprised  at  the  question. 
"The  bill-board  is  the  rear  wall  of  my 
shop,"  said  he.  "And  those  eyes  are  wall- 
eyes." 

She  flushed  with  pleasure.  "That's  ex- 
actly what  I  thought!"  she  declared. 

She  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  one 
hand  in  the  patch-pocket — to  make  sure  it 
was  really  there.  For  this  was  all  too 
good  to  be  true.  Here,  in  this  Land  so 
new  to  her,  and  so  wonderful,  were  things 
about  which  she  had  pondered,  and  puz- 
zled, and  asked  questions— the  tongues, 
for  instance,  and  the  lime-lights,  and  the 
soda-water.  How  simply  and  naturally 
each  was  now  explained! — explained  as 

222 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

she  herself  had  imagined  each  would  be. 
She  felt  a  sudden  pride  in  herself.  So  far 
had  anything  been  really  unexpected? 
As  she  went  back  to  pause  in  front  of  the 
little  old  gentleman,  it  was  with  a  delight- 
ful sense  of  understanding.  Oh,  this  was 
one  of  her  pretend-games,  gloriously  come 
true! 

Now  she  felt  a  very  flood  of  questions 
surge  to  her  lips.  She  pointed  to  a  deep 
yellow  bowl  set  on  the  table  beside  him. 
"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  that 
is?"  she  asked. 

"That?  That's  a  sauce-box."  And  he 
smiled. 

"Oh!— What's  it  full  of,  please?' 

"Full  of  mouths,"- — cheerily. 

It  was  her  turn  to  smile.  She  smiled 
into  the  sauce-box.  At  its  center  was  a 
queer  object,  very  like  a  short  length  of 
dried  apple-peeling. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"I  s'pose  that's  part  of  a  mouth?"  she 
ventured. 

He  picked  up  the  object  and  balanced 
it  across  his  thumb.  "You3 ve  guessed  it !" 
he  declared.  "And  it's  a  fine  thing  to 
carry  around  with  one.  You  see,  it's  a 
stiff  upper  lip."  He  tossed  it  back. 

"My !"  She  took  a  deep  breath.  "Once 
I  asked  and  asked  about  a  stiff  upper 
lip." 

He  went  on  with  his  polishing. 
"Should  think  you'd  be  more  interested  in 
these,"  he  observed,  giving  a  nod  of  the 
ragged  hat  toward  a  shallow  dish  at  his 
elbow.  "Little  girls  generally  are." 

She  looked,  and  saw  that  the  dish  was 
heaped  high  with  what  seemed  to  be  white 
peanuts — peanuts  that  tapered  to  a  point 
at  one  end.  She  puckered  her  brows  over 
them. 

"Can't  guess?"    said   he.     'Then   you 

224 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

didn't  drink  enough  of  that  soda-water. 
Well,  ever  hear  of  a  sweet  tooth?" 

At  that  she  clapped  her  hands  and 
jumped  up  and  down.  "Why,  I've  got 
one!"  she  cried. 

"Oh?"  said  the  little  old  gentleman. 
: 'Thought  so.  I  always  keep  a  supply  on 
hand.  Carve  'ern  myself,  out  of  cube 
sugar." 

"Oh,  aren't  they  funny!"  She  leaned 
above  the  shallow  dish. 

"Funny?"  repeated  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces.  "Not  when  they  get  into 
the  wrong  mouth! — a  wry  mouth,  for  in- 
stance, or  an  ugly  mouth.  A  sweet  tooth 
should  go,  you  understand,  only  with  a 
sweet  face." 

"Is  it  a  sweet  tooth  that  makes  a  face 
sweet?"  she  inquired. 

"Quite  so."  He  held  up  the  nose  to  ex- 
amine it  critically. 

225 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  watched  him  in  silence  for  a  while. 
Then,  "You  don't  mind  telling  me  who's 
going  to  have  that?"  she  ventured,  point- 
ing a  finger  at  the  nose. 

'This?  Oh,  this  is  for  a  certain  little 
boy's  father." 

She  blinked  thoughtfully.  "Is  his 
name,"  she  began — and  stopped. 

"His  father — the  unfortunate  man — 
has  been  keeping  his  own  nose  to  the 
grindstone  pretty  steadily  of  late,  and 


so—" 


"I  can't  just  remember  the  name 
I'm  thinking  about,"  said  Gwendolyn, 
troubled. 

He  glanced  up.  And  the  round,  bright 
eyes  were  grave  as  he  searched  her  face. 
"I  wonder,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "if  you 
know  who  you  are." 

She    smiled.     "Well,     I've    been    ac- 


226 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

quainted  with  myself  for  seven  years/' 
she  declared. 

"But  do  you  know  who  you  are?" 
(The  round  eyes  were  full  of  tears!) 

She  felt  uncertain.  "I  did  just  a  little 
while  ago.  Now,  though — " 

He  reached  to  take  her  hand.  "Shall  I 
tell  you?' 

"Yes," — in  a  whisper. 

"You're  the  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl." 
He  patted  her  hand.  "The  Poor  Little 
Rich  Girl!" 

She  nodded  bravely,  and  stood  looking 
up  at  him.  He  was  old  and  unkempt. 
Out  at  elbows,  too.  And  the  bottoms  of 
his  baggy  trousers  hung  in  dusty  shreds. 
But  his  lined  and  bearded  face  was  kind ! 
"I — I  haven't  been  so  very  happy,"  she 
said  f alteringly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  happy! 
And  no  step-relations,  either!" 

227 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Well, — er,"  (she  felt  uncertain) 
"there  are  some  step-houses  just  across 
the  street/' 

"Not  the  same  thing,"  he  declared 
shortly.  "But,  km!  km!" — as  he  coughed, 
he  waved  an  arm  cheerily.  "Things  will 
improve.  Oh,  yes.  All  you've  got  to  do 
is  follow  my  advice." 

The  gray  eyes  were  wistful,  and  ques- 
tioning. 

"You've  got  a  lot  to  do,"  he  went  on. 
"Oh,  a  great  deal.  For  instance" — here 
he  paused,  running  his  fingers  through  his 
long  hair — "there's  Miss  Royle,  and 
Thomas,  and  Jane." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  moment. 
Miss  Royle!  Thomas!  Jane!  In  the 
joy  of  being  out  of  doors,  of  having  real 
dirt  to  scuff  in,  and  high  grass  through 

which  to  brush;  of  having  a  plaid  gingham 

228 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  a  pocket,  and  all  the  fizzing  drink 
she  wished;  of  being  able  to  dabble  and 
wade;  and  of  having  good,  squashy  soda- 
mud  for  pies — in  the  joy  at  all  this  she 
had  utterly  forgotten  them!  ; 

She  looked  up  at  the  tapered  trees,  and 
down  at  the  flower-bordered  ground;  then 
at  the  bill-board,  and  the  loaded  tables  of 
that  marvelous  establishment.  There  was 
still  so  much  to  see !  And,  oh,  how  many 
scores  of  questions  to  ask! 

He  bent  until  his  beard  swept  the  sauce- 
box. "You'll  just  have  to  keep  out  of 
their  clutches"  he  declared. 

Again  she  nodded,  twisting  and  un- 
twisting her  fingers.  "I  thought  maybe 
they  didn't  come  here." 

"Come?"  he  grunted.  "Won  t  they  be 
hunting  you?  Well,  keep  out  of  their 
clutches,  I  say.  That's  absolutely  neces- 

229 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

sary.  You'll  see  why — if  you  let  'em  get 
you!  For — how'll  you  ever  find  your 
father?' 

"OA/"  A  sudden  flush  swept  her  face. 
She  looked  at  the  ground.  She  had  for- 
gotten Miss  Royle  and  Thomas  and  Jane. 
Worse !  Until  that  moment  she  had  for- 
gotten her  father  and  mother! 

"There's  that  harness  of  his/'  went  on 
the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  He  thought 
a  moment,  pursing  his  lips  and  twiddling 
his  thumbs.  "We'll  have  to  consider  how 
we  can  get  rid  of  it." 

She  glanced  up.  "Where  does  he 
come?"  she  asked  huskily;  "my  fath-er?" 

"Urn!  Yes,  where?"  He  seemed  un- 
easy; scratched  his  jaw;  and  rearranged  a 
row  of  chins.  "Well,  the  fact  is,  he  comes 
here  to — er — buy  candles  that  burn  at 
both  ends." 

"Of  course.    Is  it  far?" 
230 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Out  in  a  new  fashionable  addition — 
yes,     addition,     subtraction,    multiplica- 


tion/ 


"Tou  won't  mind  showing  me  the 
way?"  Now  her  face  grew  pale  with 
earnestness. 

He  smiled  sadly.  "I?  Your  father 
thinks  poorly  of  me.  He's  driven  me 
off  the  block  once  or  twice,  you  know. 
Though" — he  looked  away  thoughtfully 

•"when  you  come  to  think  of  it  there 
isn't  such  a  lot  of  difference  between  your 
father  and  me.  He  makes  money:  I 
make  faces." 

It  was  one  of  those  unpleasant  moments 
when  there  seemed  very  little  to  be  said. 
She  stood  on  the  other  foot. 

He  began  polishing  once  more.  "Then 
there's  that  bee,"  he  resumed — 

"Moth-er!" 

He  went  on  as  quickly  as  possible.  "Of 
231 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

course  there  are  lots  of  things  worse  than 
one  of  those  so-cial  hon-ey-gath-er-ing  in- 
sects— " 

"She    sees    nothing    else!    She    hears 
nothing  else!" 

"Urn!    We'll  help  her  get  rid  of  it  !- 
ifr 

"If?" 

:'You've  got  a  lot  to  overcome.    Recol- 
lect the  Policeman?" 

She  retreated  a  step. 

"Just  suppose  we  meet  him!    And  the 
Bear  that — " 

"My!" 

"Yes.    And  a  certain  Doctor." 

"Oh,  dear!" 

"Bad!    Pretty  bad!" 

"Where    does    my   moth-er    come  ?" — 
timidly. 

The    question   embarrassed.     "Er — the 
place  is  full  of  carriage-lamps,"  he  began; 

232 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"and — and  side-lights,  and  search-lights, 
and — er — lanterns/' 
She  looked  concerned.     "I  can't  guess/3 
"Just    ordinary    lanterns/'    he    added. 
"You  see,  the  Madam  comes  to — to  Robin 
Hood's  Barn." 
"Robin  Hood's  Bam!" 
"Exactly.    Nice  day,  isnt  it?" 
By  the  expression  on  his  face,  Gwendo- 
lyn judged  that  Robin  Hood's  Barn — of 
which  she  had  often  heard — was  a  most 
undesirable  spot.     "Is  it  far?"  she  asked, 
swallowing. 
"No.    Only — we'll  have  to  go  around 


it/ 


Somehow,  all  at  once,  he  seemed  the 
one  friend  she  had.  She  put  out  a  hand 
to  him.  "You  will  go  with  me?"  she 
begged.  "Oh,  I  want  to  find  my  fath-er, 
and  my  moth-er!" 

"You  want  to  tell  'em  the  real  truth 
233 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

about  those  three  servants  they're  hiring. 
Unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  your  parents 
have  never  taken  one  good  square  look  at 
those  three/' 

"Oh,  let's  start."  Now,  of  a  sudden, 
all  the  hopes  and  plans  of  the  past  months 
came  crowding  back  into  her  mind.  "I 
want  to  sit  at  the  grown-up  table,"  she  de- 
clared. "And  I  want  to  live  in  the  coun- 
try, and  go  to  day-school." 

He  hung  the  hand-organ  over  a  shoul- 
der. "You  can  do  every  one  of  them,"  he 
said,  "if  we  find  your  father  and  mother." 

"We'll  find  them,"  she  cried  deter- 
minedly. 

"We'll  find  'em,"  he  said,  "if,  as  we  go 
along,  we  don't  leave  one — single — stone 
— unturned'' 

"Oh!"  she  glanced  about  her,  searching 
the  ground. 

"Not  one"  he  repeated.  "And  now — 
234 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

we'll  start."  He  picked  up  two  or  three 
small  articles — an  ear,  a  handful  of  hair, 
a  plump  cheek. 

"But  there's  a  stone  right  here/'  said 
Gwendolyn.  It  was  a  small  one,  and  lay 
at  her  feet,  close  to  the  table-leg. 

He  peered  over.  "All  right!  Turn 
it!" 

She  stooped  —  turned  the  rock  — 
straightened. 

The  next  moment  a  chill  swept  her;  the 
next,  she  felt  a  heavy  hand  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  clumsy  fingers  busy  with 
the  buttons  on  the  gingham  dress. 

"*£e*!  heel  heel  hee!" 

It  was  the  voice  that  had  called  from  a 
distance.  Hearing  it  now  she  felt  a 
sudden,  sickish,  sinking  feeling.  She 
whirled. 

A  strange  creature  was  kneeling  behind 
her — a  creature  dressed  in  black  sateen, 

235 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

and  like  no  human  being  that  she  had  ever 
met  before.    For  it  was  two-faced! 

One  face  (the  front)  was  blowzy  and 
freckled,  with  a  small  pug  nose  and  a 
quarrelsome  mouth.  The  other  (the  face 
on  what,  with  ordinary  persons,  was  the 
back  of  the  head)  was  dark  and  forbid- 
ding, its  nose  a  large  brick-colored  pug, 
the  mouth  underneath  shaped  most  ex- 
traordinarily— not  unlike  a  banette,  for  it 
was  wide  and  long,  and  square  at  the  cor- 
ners, and  full  of  shining  tortoise-shell 
teeth!  But  the  creature  had  only  one 
tongue.  This  was  loose  at  both  ends,  so 
that  there  was  one  tip  for  her  front  face, 
and  one  for  the  back.  But  she  had  only 
one  pair  of  eyes.  These  were  reddish. 
They  watched  Gwendolyn  boldly  from  the 
front;  then  rolled  quickly  to  the  rear  to 
stare  at  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

236 


fc  The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  sight  of  the  two-faced  creature, 
Gwendolyn  shrank  away,  frightened. 

"Oh!— oh,  my!"  she  faltered. 

Both  horrid  mouths  now  bellowed  hila- 
riously. And  the  creature  reached  out  a 
big  hand. 

"Look  here,  Gwendolyn!"  it  ordered. 
"You  ain't  goin'!" 

Gwendolyn  lifted  terrified  eyes  for  a 
second  look  at  the  brick-colored  hair,  the 
blowzy  countenance.  No  possibility  of 
doubt  remained! 

It  was  Jane! 


CHAPTER  IX 

TQOBBING  and  swaying  foolishly,  the 
"^  nurse-maid  shuffled  to  her  feet. 
And  Gwendolyn,  though  she  wanted  to 
turn  and  flee  beyond  the  reach  of  those 
big,  clutching  hands,  found  herself  rooted 
to  the  ground,  and  could  only  stand  and 
stare  helplessly. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  stepped 
to  her  side  hastily.  His  look  was  per- 
turbed. "My !  My !"  he  exclaimed  under 
his  breath.  "She's  worse  than  I  thought ! 
— much  worse." 

With  a  little  gasp  of  relief  at  having 
him  so  near,  Gwendolyn  slipped  her 
trembling  fingers  into  his.  "She's  worse 
than  /  thought,"  she  managed  to  whisper 

back. 

238 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Neither  was  given  a  chance  to  say  more. 
For  seeing  them  thus,  hand  in  hand,  Jane 
suddenly  started  forward — with  a  great 
boisterous  hop  and  skip.  Her  front  face 
was  distorted  with  a  jealous  scowl.  She 
gave  Gwendolyn  a  rough  sidewise  shove. 

"Git  away  from  that  old  beggar!"  she 
commanded  harshly.  "Why,  he'll  kid- 
nap you!  Look  at  his  knife!" 

Nimbly  the  little  old  gentleman  thrust 
himself  in  front  of  her,  barring  her  way, 
and  shielding  Gwendolyn.  "Who  told 
you  where  she  was?"  he  asked  angrily. 

"Who?"  mocked  Jane,  impudently. 
"Well,  who  is  it  that  tells  people  things?" 

"You  mean  the  Bird?" 

Jane's  front  face  broke  into  a  pleased 
grin.  "I  mean  the  Bird,"  she  bragged. 
And  balanced  from  foot  to  foot. 

Gwendolyn,  peeking  round  at  her,  of  a 
sudden  felt  a  fresh  concern.  The  Bird! 

239 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

— the  same  Bird  that  had  repeated  tales 
against  her  father !  And  now  he  was  tat- 
tling on  her!  She  saw  all  her  hopes  of 
finding  her  parents,  all  her  happy  plans, 
in  danger  of  being  blighted. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  she  said  mourn- 
fully. 

She  was  holding  tight  to  the  little  old 
gentleman's  coat-tails.  Now  he  leaned 
down.  "We  must  get  rid  of  her/'  he  de- 
clared. "You  know  what  I  said.  She'll 
make  us  trouble!" 

"Here!  None  of  that!"  It  was  Jane 
once  more,  the  grin  replaced  by  a  dark 
look.  "I'll  have  you  know  this  child  is  in 
my  charge."  Again  she  tried  to  seize 
Gwendolyn. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  stood  his 
ground  resolutely — and  swung  the  curved 
knife  up  to  check  any  advance. 

240 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"She  doesn't  need  you,"  he  declared. 
"She's  seven,  and  she's  grown-up."  And 
to  Gwendolyn,  "tfell  her  so!  Don't  be 
afraid!  Tell  her!" 

Gwendolyn  promptly  opened  her 
mouth.  But  try  as  she  would,  she  could 
not  speak.  Her  lips  seemed  dry.  Her 
tongue  refused  to  move.  She  could  only 
swallow ! 

As  if  he  understood  her  plight,  the 
little  old  gentleman  suddenly  sprang 
aside  to  where  was  the  sauce-box, 
snatched  something  out  of  it,  ran  to  the 
other  table  and  picked  up  an  oblong 
leather  case  (a  case  exactly  like  the  gold- 
mounted  one  in  which  Miss  Royle  kept 
her  spectacles),  put  the  something  out  of 
the  sauce-box  into  the  case,  closed  the  case 
with  a  snap,  and  put  it,  with  a  swift  mo- 
tion, into  Gwendolyn's  hand. 

241 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"There!"      he      cried      triumphantly. 
"There's  that  stiff  upper  lip!    Now  you 


can  answer.53 


It  was  true !  No  sooner  did  she  feel  the 
leather  case  against  her  palm,  than  her 
fear,  and  her  hesitation  and  lack  of  words, 
were  gone ! 

She  assumed  a  determined  attitude,  and 
went  up  to  Jane.  "I  don't  need  you,"  she 
said  firmly.  '  'Cause  I'm  seven  years  old 
now,  and  I'm  grown  up.  And — what  are 
you  here  for  anyhow?" 

At  the  very  boldness  of  it,  Jane's  man- 
ner completely  changed.  That  front 
countenance  took  on  a  silly  simper.  And 
she  put  her  two-faced  head,  now  on  one 
side,  now  on  the  other,  ingratiatingly. 

"What  am  I  here  for!"  she  repeated  in 
an  injured  tone.  "And  you  ask  me  that, 
Miss?  Why,  what  should  I  be  doin'  for 

you,  lovie,  but  dancin'  attendance." 

242 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  that,  she  began  to  act  most  curiously, 
stepping  to  the  right  and  pointing  a  toe; 
stepping  to  the  left  and  pointing  a  toe; 
setting  down  one  heel,  setting  down  the 
other;  then  taking  a  waltzing  turn. 

"Oh!"  said  Gwendolyn,  understand- 
ing. (For  dancing  attendance  was  pre- 
cisely what  Jane  was  doing!)  After  ob- 
serving the  other's  antics  for  a  moment, 
she  tossed  her  head.  "Well,  if  that's  all 
you  want  to  do,"  she  said  unconcernedly, 
"why,  dance." 

"Yes,  dance,"  broke  in  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces,  snapping  his  fingers. 
"Frolic  and  frisk  and  flounce!" 

Jane  obeyed.  And  waltzed  up  to  the 
bill-board.  "Say!  what's  the  price  of  that 
big  braid?"  she  called — between  her  tor- 
toise-shell teeth.  She  had  spied  the  red 
coronet,  and  was  admiring  its  plaited 
beauty. 

243 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

From  under  those  long,  square  brows, 
the  little  old  gentleman  frowned  across 
the  table  at  her.  "I'll  quote  you  no 
prices,5'  he  answered.  "You  haven't  paid 
me  yet  for  your  extra  face." 

Jane's  reply  was  an  impudent  double- 
laugh.  She  was  examining  the  different 
things  on  the  bill-board,  and  hopping 
sillily  from  foot  to  foot. 

Gwendolyn  tugged  gently  at  a  coat- 
tail.  "Can't  we  run  now?"  she  asked; 
"and  hide?" 

Boom-er-oom-er-oom! 

"Sh!"  warned  the  Man-Who-Makes- 
Faces,  not  stirring.  "What  was  that!" 

"I  don't  know." 

Both  held  their  breath.  And  Gwendo- 
lyn took  a  more  firm  hold  of  the  lip-case. 

After  a  moment  the  little  old  gentleman 
began  to  speak  very  low:  "We  shan't  be 

244 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

able  to  steal  away.  She's  watching  us 
out  of  the  back  of  her  head!" 

"Yes.    I  can  see  'em  shine!" 

"I  believe  that  when  she  rolled  her  eyes 
from  one  face  to  the  other  it  made  that 
rumbley  sound'' 

"Scares  me,"  whispered  Gwendolyn. 

"Ump!"  he  grunted.  "Ought  to  cheer 
you  up.  For  it's  my  opinion  that  her  eyes 
rumble  because  'her  head's  empty." 

*clf  it  was  hollow  I  think  I'd  know/'  she 
answered  doubtfully.  "You  see  she's 
been  my  nurse  a  long  time.  But — would 
it  help?" 

"Find  out"  he  advised.  "And  if  it's  a 
fact,  your  mother  ought  to  know." 

Boom-er-oom-er-oom ! 

Gwendolyn,  watching,  saw  two  shining 
spots  in  Jane's  back  face  grow  suddenly 
small — to  the  size  of  glinting  pin-points; 

245 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

then  disappear.    The  nurse  turned,  and 
came  dancing  back. 

"You'd  better  let  me  have  that  braid, 
old  man,"  she  cried  rudely. 

"I'll  smooth  down  your  saucy  tongue," 
he  threatened. 

"Tee!  hee!  hee!  hee!"  she  tittered. 
"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Gwendolyn  had  heard  her  laugh  before. 
But  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  her 
laugh.  The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces,  too. 
Now,  at  the  same  moment,  both  wit- 
nessed an  extraordinary  thing:  As  Jane 
chuckled,  she  lifted  one  stout  arm  so  that 
a  black  sateen  cuff  was  close  to  the  mouth 
of  the  front  face.  And  holding  it  there, 
actually  laughed  in  her  sleeve! 

Laughed  in  her  sleeve — and  a  great  deal 
morel  For  with  each  chuckle,  from  the 
top  of  her  red  head  to  her  very  feet,  she 
grew  a  trifle  more  plump! 

246 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  little  old  gentleman  warned  her 
with  one  long  finger.  :cYou  look  out, 
young  lady !"  said  he.  "One  of  these  days 
you'll  laugh  on  the  other  side  of  your 
face."  '(Which  made  Gwendolyn  wish 
that  it  was  not  impolite  to  correct  those 
older  than  herself;  for  it  was  plain  that  he 
meant  "you'll  laugh  on  your  oilier  face/3) 

Jane  put  out  a  tongue-tip  at  him  inso- 
lently. Then  dancing  near,  "Come !"  she 
bade  Gwendolyn.  "Come  away  with 
Nurse." 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  made  no 
effort  to  interpose.  But  he  wagged  his 
head  significantly.  "It's  evident.  Miss 
Jane/'  said  he,  "that  you've  forgotten  all 
about — the  Piper." 

She  came  short.  And  showed  herself 
upset  by  what  he  had  said,  for  she  did  a 
hop-schottische. 

He  was  not  slow  to  take  advantage. 
247 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"We're  sure  to  see  him  shortly,"  he  went 
on.  "And  when  we  do — !  Because  your 
account  with  him  is  adding  up  terrifically. 
You're  dancing  a  good  deal,  you  know." 

"How  can  I  help  that?"  demanded 
Jane.  "Ain't  I  dancin'  atten — " 

Gwendolyn  forgot  to  listen  to  the  re- 
mainder of  the  sentence.  All  at  once  she 
was  a  little  apprehensive  on  her  own  ac- 
count— remembering  how  she  had  danced 
beside  the  soda-water,  not  half  an  hour 
before ! 

"Mr.  Man-Who-Makes-Faces,"  she  be- 
gan timidly,  "do  you  mean  the  Piper  that 
everybody  has  to  pay?" 

"Exactly,"  replied  the  little  old  gentle- 
man. "He's  out  collecting  some  pay  for 
me  now— from  a  dishonest  fellow  who 
didn't  settle  for  two  dozen  ears  that  I 
boxed  and  sent  him." 

At  that,  Jane  began  tittering  harder 
248 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

than  ever  (hysterically,  this  time),  hold- 
ing up  her  arm  as  before— and  filling  out 
two  or  three  wrinkles  in  the  black  sateen ! 
And  Gwendolyn,  watching  closely,  saw 
that  while  the  front  face  of  her  nurse  was 
all  a-grin,  the  face  on  the  back  of  her  head 
wore  a  nervous  expression.  (Evidently 
that  front  face  was  not  always  to  be  de- 
pended upon!) 

The  little  old  gentleman  also  remarked 
the  nervous  expression.  And  followed  up 
the  advantage  already  won.  "Now/'  said 
he,  "perhaps  you'll  be  willing  to  come 
along  quietly.  We're  just  starting,  you 
understand."  He  jerked  a  thumb  over 
his  shoulder. 

Gwendolyn  glanced  in  the  direction  he 
pointed.  And  saw — for  the  first  time — 
that  a  wide,  smooth  road  led  away  from 
the  Face-Shop,  a  road  as  wide  and  smooth 
and  curving  as  the  Drive.  Like  the  Drive 

249 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

it  was  well-lighted  on  either  side  (but 
lighted  low-down)  by  a  row  of  tiny  elec- 
tric bulbs  with  frosted  shades,  each 
resembling  an  incandescent  toadstool. 
(She  remembered  having  once  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  similar  in  a  store- 
window.)  These  tiny  lamps  were  set 
close  together  on  short  stems,  precisely  as 
white  stones  of  a  selected  size  edged  all 
the  paths  at  Johnnie  Blake's.  And  each 
gave  out  a  soft  light.  She  did  not  have 
to  ask  about  them.  She  guessed  promptly 
what  they  were — lights  to  make  plain  the 
way  for  people's  feet:  in  short,  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  footlights ! 

A  few  times  in  her  life — so  few  that  she 
could  tell  them  off  on  her  pink  fingers — 
she  had  been  taken  to  the  theater,  Jane 
accompanying  her  by  right  of  nurse-maid, 
Miss  Royle  by  her  superior  right  as  judge 

of  all  matters  that  partook  of  entertain- 

250 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ment;  Thomas  coming  also,  though  appar- 
ently for  no  reason  whatever,  to  grace  a 
rear  seat  along  with  the  chauffeur.  Seated 
in  a  box,  close  to  the  curved  edge  of  the 
stage,  she  had  seen  the  soft  glow  of  the 
footlights.  But  for  some  reason  which 
she  could  not  fathom,  the  footlights  had 
always  been  carefully  concealed  from 
everyone  but  the  people  on  the  stage. 
Trying  to  imagine  them  without  any  sug- 
gestions from  Miss  Royle  or  Jane,  she  had 
patterned  them  after  a  certain  stuffed 
slipper-cushion  that  stood  on  Jane's  dress- 
ing-table. How  different  was  the  real- 
ity, and  how  much  more  satisfactory ! 

Jane  looked  up  the  road,  between  the 
lines  of  footlights.  " You're  just  start- 
in',"  she  repeated.  "Where?" 

'To  find  her  father  and  mother," 
answered  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces, 
stoutly. 

251 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  that  Jane  shook  her  huge  pompa- 
dour. "Father  and  mother!"  she  cried. 
"Indeed,  you  won't!  Not  while  I'm  a- 
takin'  care  of  her."  And  reaching  out, 
caught  Gwendolyn — by  a  slender  wrist. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  seized  the 
other.  And  the  next  moment  Gwendolyn 
was  unpleasantly  reminded  of  times  in 
the  nursery,  times  when,  Miss  Royle  and 
Jane  disagreeing  about  her,  each  pulled 
at  an  arm  and  quarreled.  For  here  was 
the  nurse,  tugging  one  direction  to  drag 
her  away,  and  the  little  old  gentleman 
tugging  the  other  with  all  his  might. 

"Slap  her  hands!  Slap  her  hands!"  he 
shouted  excitedly.  "It'll  start  circula- 
tion." 

Both  slapped — so  hard  that  her  hands 
stung.  And  with  the  result  he  sought. 
For  instantly  all  three  began  going  in  cir- 

252 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

cles,  around  and  around,  faster  and  faster 
and  faster. 

It  was  Jane  who  first  let  go.  She  was 
puffing  hard,  and  the  perspiration  was 
standing  out  upon  her  forehead.  "I'm 
going  to  call  the  Policeman,"  she  threat- 
ened shrilly. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Please  don't!"  Gwendo- 
lyn's cry  was  as  shrill.  "I  don't  want  him 
to  get  me!" 

"Call  the  Policeman  then,"  retorted  the 
Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  And  to  Gwen- 
dolyn, soothingly,  "Hush!  Hush,  child!" 

Jane  danced  away  —  sidewise,  as  if  to 
keep  watch  as  she  went.  "Help!  Help!" 
she  shouted.  "Police!  Police!!  Poli-i-i- 


Gwendolyn  was  terribly  frightened. 
But  she  could  not  run.  One  wrist  was 
still  in  the  grasp  of  the  little  old  gentle- 

253 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

man.    With  wildly  throbbing  heart  she 
watched  the  road. 

"Is  he  coming?"  called  the  little  old 
gentleman.  He,  too,  was  looking  up  the 
curving  road. 

A  whistle  sounded.  It  was  long- 
drawn,  piercing. 

And  now  Gwendolyn  heard  movements 
all  about  her  in  the  forest — the  soft  pad, 
pad  of  running  paws,  the  hushing  sound 
of  wings — as  if  small  live  things  were 
fleeing  before  the  sharp  call. 

Jane  hastened  back,  galloping  a  polka. 
"Turn  a  stone !  Turn  a  stone !"  she  cried, 
rumbling  her  eyes. 

Gwendolyn  clung  to  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman. "Oh,  don't  let  her!"  she  plead. 
-What  if—" 

"We  must." 

"Will  a  pebble-size  do?"  yelled  Jane, 
excitedly. 

254 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Yes!  Yes!"  answered  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces.  "You've  seen  stones  in 
rings,  haven't  you?  Aren't  they  pebble- 
size?5 

The  nurse  stooped,  picked  up  a  small 
stone,  and  sent  it  spinning  from  the  end 
of  a  thumb. 

Faint  with  fear,  Gwendolyn  thrust  a 
trembling  hand  into  the  patch-pocket  and 
took  hold  of  the  lip-case.  Then  leaning 
against  the  little  old  gentleman,  her  yel- 
low head  half -concealed  by  the  dusty  flap 
of  his  torn  coat,  she  waited. 


255 


CHAPTER  X 

TT7HAT  she  first  saw  was  a  face! — 
straight  ahead,  at  the  top  of  a  steep 
rise,  where  the  wide  road  narrowed  to  a 
point.  The  face  was  a  man's,  and  upon  it 
the  footlights  beat  so  strongly  that  each 
feature  was  startlingly  vivid.  But  it  was 
not  the  fact  that  she  saw  only  a  face  that 
set  her  knees  to  trembling  weakly — nor 
the  fact  that  the  face  was  fearfully  dis- 
torted; but  because  it  was  upside  down! 

She  stared,  feeling  herself  grow  cold, 
her  flesh  creep.  "Oh,  I  want  to  go  home !" 
she  gasped. 

The  face  began  to  move  nearer,  slowly, 
inch  by  inch.  And  there  sounded  a 

hoarse  outcry:  "Hoo!  hoo!    Tiodl  hoo!" 

256 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

It  was  the  little  old  gentleman  who 
reassured  her  somewhat — by  his  even 
voice.  "Ah!"  said  he  with  something  of 
pride,  yet  as  if  to  himself.  "He  realizes 
that  the  black  eye  is  a  beauty.  And  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  isn't  coming  to 
match  it!" 

But  what  temporary  confidence  she 
gained,  fled  when  Jane,  tetter  ing  from 
side  to  side,  began  to  threaten  in  a  most 
terrifying  way.  "Now,  young  Miss!" 
she  cried.  "Now,  you're  goin'  to  be  sorry 
you  didn't  mind  Jane!  Oh,  I  told  you 
he'd  git  you  some  fine  day!" 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  retorted 
— what,  Gwendolyn  did  not  hear.  She 
was  sick  with  apprehension.  "I  guess  I 
won't  find  my  father  and  moth-er  now," 
she  whispered  miserably. 

Then,  all  at  once,  she  could  see  more 
than  a  face!  Silhouetted  against  the 

257 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

lighted  sky  was  a  figure— broad- 
shouldered  and  belted,  with  swinging 
cudgel,  and  visored  cap.  It  was  like 
those  dreaded  figures  that  patroled  the 
Drive — yet  how  different!  For  as  the 
Policeman  came  on,  his  wild  face  peered 
between  his  coat-tails! — peered  between 
his  coat-tails  for  the  reason  that  he  was 
upside  down,  and  walking  on  his  hands! 

"Hoo!  hoo!  Hoo!  hoo!"  he  clamored 
again.  His  coat  flopped  about  his  ears. 
His  natural  merino  socks  showed  where 
his  trousers  fell  away  from  his  shoes. 
His  club  bumped  the  side  of  his  head  at 
every  stride  of  his  long  blue-clad  arms. 

His  identification  was  complete.  For 
precisely  as  Thomas  had  declared,  he  was 
heels  over  head. 

"My!"  breathed  Gwendolyn,  so  aston- 
ished that  she  almost  forgot  to  be  anxious 


258 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

for  her  own  safety.  (What  a  marvelous 
Land  was  this — where  everything  was 
really  as  it  ought  to  be !) 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  addressed 
her,  smiling  down.  "You  won't  mind  if 
we  don't  start  for  a  minute  or  two,  will 
you?"  he  inquired.  "This  Officer  will 
probably  want  to  discuss  the  prices  of 
eyes.  You  see,  I  gave  him  his  black  one. 
If  he  wants  another,  though,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  ask  the  Piper  to  collect." 

"Aren't — aren't  you  afraid  of  him?" 
stammered  Gwendolyn,  in  a  whisper. 

"Afraid?"  he  echoed,  surprised. 
"Why,  no!  Are  you?" 

Somehow,  she  felt  ashamed.  "N-n- 
not  very,"  she  faltered. 

No  sooner  did  she  partly  deny  her  fear 
than  she  experienced  a  most  delicious 
feeling  of  security!  And  this  feeling 
grew  as  she  watched  the  nearing  Police- 

259 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

man.     For    she    saw    that   he    was    in    a 
mournful  state. 

It  was  worry  and  grief  that  distorted 
his  face.  The  dark  eyes  above  the  visor 
(both  the  black  eye  and  the  other  one) 
were  streaming  with  tears*  tears  which, 
naturally  enough,  ran  from  the  four 
corners  of  his  eyes,  down  across  his  fore- 
head, and  on  into  his  hair.  And  it  was 
evident  that  he  had  been  weeping  for  a 
long  time,  for  his  cap  was  full ! 

And  now  she  realized  that  the  hoarse 
cries  which  had  filled  her  with  terror 
were  the  saddest  of  complaints! — were 
not  "Hoo!  hoo!"  but  "Boo!  hoo!" 

"Poor  man!"  sympathized  the  little  old 
gentleman,  wagging  his  beard. 

Jane,  however,  with  characteristic  lack 
of  compassion,  hopped  about,  tee-heeing 
loudly — and  straightening  out  any  num- 
ber of  wrinkles.  "Oh,  ain't  he  a  sight!" 

260 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

she  chortled.  She  had  entirely  given 
over  her  threatening. 

Gwendolyn  now  felt  secure  enough. 
But  she  did  not  feel  like  laughing.  She 
was  sober  to  the  point  of  pitying.  For 
though  he  looked  ridiculous,  he  was  so  ab- 
solutely helpless,  so  utterly  unhappy. 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  he  exclaimed  as 
he  came  on — hand  over  hand,  legs  held 
together,  and  swaying  from  side  to  side 
rhythmically,  like  the  pendulum  of  the 
metronome.  "What  shall  I  do!  What 
shall  I  do!" 

"Need  any  sharpening?"  called  out  the 
Man-Who-Makes-Faces,  brandishing  the 
curved  knife.  "Is  there  something 
wrong?" 

"Wrong!"  echoed  the  Policeman  dole- 
fully. "I  should  say  so!  Oh,  dear! 
Oh,  dear!"  And  still  weeping  copiously, 

so  that  his  forehead  glistened  with  his 

261 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

tears,  he  plodded  across  the  border  of  the 
Face-Shop. 

It  was  then  that  Gwendolyn  recalled 
under  what  circumstances  she  had  seen 
him  last.  Only  two  or  three  days  before, 
when  bound  homeward  in  the  limousine, 
she  had  spied  him  loitering  beside  the 
walled  walk.  "What  makes  his  club 
shine  so?"  she  had  asked  Jane,  whisper- 
ing. "Eh?"  whispered  Jane  in  return; 
"what  else  than  blood?"  The  wind  was 
blowing  as  the  automobile  swept  past  him : 
The  breeze  lifted  the  tail  of  his  belted 
coat.  And  for  one  terrifying  instant 
Gwendolyn  caught  a  glimpse  of  steel! 

"And  if  he  don't  mean  harm  to  any- 
body,"  Jane  had  added  when  Gwendolyn 
turned  scared  eyes  to  her,  "why  does  he 
carry  a  pistol?" 

But  there  was  no  need  to  fear  a  weapon 

now.     The  falling  away  of  his  coat-tails 

262 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

had  uncovered  his  trouser-pockets.  And 
#s  he  halted,  Gwendolyn  saw  that  his  re- 
volver was  gone,  his  pistol-pocket  empty. 

She  took  a  timid  step  toward  him. 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Officer,"  she  said. 
"Can't  you  let  your  feet  come  down? 
Then  you'd  be  on  your  back,  and  you 
could  get  up  the  right  way." 

Up  came  his  face  between  his  coat-tails. 
He  stared  at  her  with  his  new  black  eye — 
with  the  other  one,  too.  (She  noted  that 
it  was  blue.)  "But  I  am  up  the  right 
way,"  he  answered.  "Oh,  no!  It  isn't 
that !  It  isn't  that !"  His  hands  were  en- 
cased in  white  cotton  gloves.  He  rocked 
himself  from  one  to  the  other. 

"No,  it  isn't  that,"  agreed  the  little  old 
gentleman;  "but  I  firmly  believe  that 
you'd  feel  better  if  you'd  order  another 
eye." 

"Another  eye!"  said  the  Policeman,  bit- 
263 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

terly.  "Would  another  eye  help  me  to 
find  him?" 

"Oh,  I  see."  The  Man-Who-Makes- 
Faces  spoke  with  some  concern.  'Then 
he's  flown?' 

Gwendolyn,  puzzled,  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other.  "Who  is  'he'?"  she  asked. 

The  Policeman  bumped  his  head 
against  his  night-stick.  "The  Bird!"  he 
mourned. 

At  that,  Jane  hopped  up  and  down  in 
evident  delight. 

But  Gwendolyn  fell  back,  taking  up  a 
position  beside  the  little  old  gentleman. 
That  Bird  again!  And  it  was  evident 
that  the  Policeman  thought  well  of  him! 

Pity  swiftly  merged  into  suspicion. 

"I  s'pose  you  mean  the  Bird  that  tells 
people  things,"  she  ventured — to  be  sure 
that  she  was  not  misjudging  him. 

He  wiped  his  black  eye  on  a  coat-tail. 
264 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Aye,"  he  answered.  "That's  the  one. 
And,  oh,  but  he  could  tell  you  things!" 

Gwendolyn  considered  the  statement. 
At  last,  "He's  a  tattletale!"  she  charged, 
and  felt  her  cheeks  crimson  with  sudden 
anger. 

He  nodded — so  vigorously  that  some  of 
his  tears  splashed  over  the  rim  of  his  cap. 
"That's  why  the  Police  can't  get  along 
without  him,"  he  declared.  "And,  oh, 
here  I've  gone  and  lost  him !  And  They'll 
put  me  off  the  Force!"  (Bump!  bump! 
bump ! ) 

"They?"  she  questioned.  "Do  you 
mean  the  soda-water  They?" 

"And  They  know  so  much,"  explained 
the  little  old  gentleman,  "because  the 
Bird  tells  'em." 

"He  tells  'em  everything,"  grumbled 
the  Officer.  "They  send  him  around  the 
whole  country  hunting  gossip — when  he 

265 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ought  to  be  working  exclusively  in  the  in- 
terest of  Law  and  Order." 

Law  and  Order — Gwendolyn  won- 
dered who  these  two  were. 

"He  knows  everything  I  do/5  asserted 
the  Policeman,  "and  everything  she 
does — "  Here  he  jerked  his  head  side- 
wise  at  Jane. 

She  retreated,  an  expression  of  guilt  on 
that  front  face. 

"And  everything  you  do/'  he  went  on, 
indicating  Gwendolyn. 

"I  know  that/'  she  said  in  an  injured 
tone.  "He  told  Jane  I  was  here." 

At  that,  the  Policeman  gave  himself  a 
quick  half-turn.  "You've  seen  him?"  he 
demanded  of  the  nurse. 

She  shifted  from  side  to  side  nervously. 
"It  ain't  the  same  one,"  she  protested. 
"It—" 

He  interrupted.  "You  couldn't  be 
266 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

mistaken/'  he  declared.     "Did  he  have  a 
bumpy  forehead?  and  a  lumpy  tail?" 

:cYou  don't  mean  a  lump  of  salt"  said 
Gwendolyn,  astonished. 

"He  does,"  said  the  little  old  gentle- 
man. "And  the  bumpy  forehead  is  from 
having  to  remember  so  many  things." 

She  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Well,  I 
think  I'd  like  that  Bird,"  she  said.  "And 
I  don't  believe  he's  far.  'Cause  when 
you  whistled  I  heard  flying." 

''Running  and  flying,"  corrected  the 
Policeman;  " — running  and  flying  to  me" 
(He  said  it  proudly.)  "The  squirrels 
and  the  robin-redbreasts,  and  the  spar- 
rows, all  follow  me  here  from  the  Park  of 
a  night,  knowing  I  protect  'em." 

"Oh?"  murmured  Gwendolyn.  "You 
protect  'em?"  She  looked  sidewise  at 
Jane,  reflecting  that  the  nurse  had  given 
him  quite  another  character. 

267 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Yes;  and  I  protect  old,  old  people." 

"Huh!"  snorted  the  Man-Who-Makes- 
Faces.  "You  protect  old  people,  eh? 
Well,  how  about  old  organ-grinders?" 

"You  ought  to  know,"  answered  the 
Officer  promptly.  "I  guess  you  didn't 
give  me  that  black  eye  for  nothing." 

Whereat  the  little  old  gentleman  sud- 
denly subsided  into  silence. 

"Yes,  I  protect  old  people,"  reiterated 
the  other,  "and  the  blind,  of  course,  and 
the  trees  and  the  flowers  and  the  foun- 
tains. Also,  the  statues.  There's  the 
General,  for  instance.  If  I  didn't  watch 
out,  folks  would  scribble  on  him  with 
chalk." 

Gwendolyn  assented.  Once  more  she 
was  beginning  to  have  belief  in  him. 

"Then,"  he  resumed,  "I  look  after  the 
children,  so  that — " 

She  started.  The  children! — he? 
268 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"But,"  she  interrupted,  "Jane's  always 
told  me  that  you  grab  little  boys  and  girls 
and  carry  'em  off."  Then,  fairly  shook 
at  her  own  boldness. 

"I  never!"  denied  Jane,  sullenly. 

He  laughed.  "I  do  carry  'em  off.  But 
where?9' 

"I  don't  know," — in  a  flutter. 

'Tell  her,"  urged  the  little  old  gentle- 
man. 

The  Policeman  leaned  his  feet  against 
the  bill-board.  "I'm  the  man,"  said  he, 
"that  takes  lost  little  kids  to  their  fathers 
and  mothers." 

To  their  fathers  and  mothers!  Gwen- 
dolyn came  round  upon  Jane,  lifting  ac- 
cusing eyes,  pointing  an  accusing  finger. 
"So!"  she  breathed.  "You  told  me  he 
stole  'em!  It  isn't  true!"  And  she 
wiggled  the  finger. 

Jane  edged  away,  head  on  one  side. 
269 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  I  was  jokin'  you/'  she  declared 
lightly.  But — accidentally — she  turned 
aside  her  grinning  front  face  and  gave  the 
others  a  glimpse  of  the  back  one.  And 
each  noted  how  the  square  mouth  was 
trembling  with  anxiety. 

"Ah -ha!53  exclaimed  Gwendolyn,  tri- 
umphantly. "I'm  finding  you  out!" 

The  Policeman  crossed  his  feet  against 
the  bill-board,  taking  care  not  to  injure 
any  of  the  articles  there  displayed. 
"Yes,  I've  taken  a  lot  of  lost  little  kids  to 
their  fathers  and  mothers,"  he  repeated. 
"And  I  was  just  wondering  if  you — " 

She  gave  him  no  chance  to  finish  his 
sentence.  In  her  joy  at  finding  that  here 
was  another  friend,  she  ran  to  him  and 
leaned  to  smile  into  his  face. 

"You'll  help  me  to  find  my  fath-er  and 
moth-er,  won't  you?"  she  cried. 

"C^-tainly!" 

270 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"We  were  starting  just  as  you  came," 
said  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

"Well,  let's  be  off!"  His  whistle  hung 
by  a  thin  chain  from  a  button-hole  of  his 
coat.  He  swung  it  to  his  lips,  ^footl 
^footl  It  was  a  cheery  blast. 

The  next  moment,  coming,  as  it  were, 
on  the  heels  of  her  sudden  good  fortune, 
Gwendolyn  closed  her  right  hand  and 
found  herself  possessed  of  a  bag  of  candy ! 
— red-and-white  stick-candy  of  the  vari- 
ety that  she  had  often  seen  selling  at 
street  corners  (out  of  show-cases  that 
went  on  wheels).  More  than  once  she 
had  longed,  and  in  vain,  to  stop  at  one 
of  these  show-cases  and  purchase.  Now 
she  suddenly  remembered  having  done 
so  with  a  high  hand.  The  sticks  were 
striped  spirally.  Boldly  she  produced 
one  and  fell  to  sucking  it,  making  more 


271 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

noise  with  her  sucking  than  ever  the  strict 
proprieties  of  the  nursery  permitted, 

Then,  candy  in  hand,  and  with  the  lit- 
tle old  gentleman  on  her  right,  the  Police- 
man on  her  left,  and  Jane  trailing  behind, 
doing  a  one-two-three-and-point,  she  set 
forward  gayly  along  the  wide,  curving 
road. 


272 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  S  she  trotted  along,  pulling  with  great 
relish  at  a  candy-stick,  she  glanced 
down  at  the  Policeman  every  now  and 
then — and  glowed  with  pride.  On  some 
few  well-remembered  occasions  her  chauf- 
feur had  condescended  to  hold  a  short  con- 
versation with  her;  had  even  permitted 
her  to  sound  the  clarion  of  the  limousine, 
with  its  bright,  piercing  tones.  All  of 
which  had  been  keenly  gratifying.  But 
here  she  was,  actually  conversing  with  an 
Officer  in  full  uniform!  And  on  terms  of 
perfect  equality! 

She  proffered  him   the  bag  of   spiral 
sweets. 

He  cocked  his  head  sidewise  at  it.     "Is 
that  the  chewing  kind?"  he  inquired. 

273 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry!" 

However,  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
disappointed.  For  he  had  a  mouthful  of 
gum,  and  this  he  cracked  loudly  from  time 
to  time — in  a  way  that  excited  her  ad- 
miration and  envy. 

"I've  watched  you  go  by  our  house  lots 
of  times/5  she  confided  presently,  eager 
to  say  something  cordial. 

"Oh?"  said  he.  "It's  a  beat  that  does 
well  enough  in  summer.  But  in  the 
wintertime  I'd  rather  be  Down-Town." 
Puffing  a  little, — for  though  he  was  up- 
side down  and  walking  on  his  hands,  he 
had  so  far  made  good  progress — he  halted 
and  rested  his  feet  against  the  lowest 
limb  of  a  tree  that  stood  close  to  the  road. 
Now  his  cap  touched  the  ground,  and  his 
hands  were  free.  With  one  white-gloved 
finger  he  drew  three  short  lines  in  the 

packed  dirt. 

274 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"And  you  ought  to  be  Down-Town/' 
declared  the  little  old  gentleman,  halting 
too.  "Because  you're  a  Policeman  with 
a  level  head." 

A  level  head?  Gwendolyn  stooped  to 
look.  And  saw  that  it  was  indeed  a 
fact! 

"If  I  hadn't  one/5  answered  the  Police- 
man with  dignity,  "would  I  be  able  to 
stand  up  comfortably  in  this  remarkable 
manner?" 

"Oh,  tee!hee!hee!hee!'' 

It  was  the  nurse,  her  sleeve  lifted,  her 
blowzy  face  convulsed.  As  she  laughed, 
Gwendolyn  saw  wrinkle  after  wrinkle  in 
the  black  sateen  taken  up — with  truly 
alarming  rapidity. 

"My!"  she  exclaimed.  "Jane's  always 
been  stout.  But  now — !" 

The  Policeman  was  deepening  the  three 
short  lines  in  the  dirt,  making  a  capital 

275 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

A.  "Two  streets  come  together,"  he  said, 
placing  his  finger  on  the  point  of  the  let- 
ter. "And  the  block  that  connects  'em 
just  before  they  meet,  that's  the  beat  for 


"I  hope  you'll  get  it,"  she  said  heartily. 

"Get  it!"  he  repeated  bitterly.  "Well, 
I  certainly  won't  if  I  don't  find  that 
Bird!"  And  he  started  forward  once 
more. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces,  trudging 
alongside,  craned  to  peer  ahead,  his  griz- 
zled beard  sticking  straight  out  in  front 
of  him.  "Now,  let  me  see,"  he  mused  in 
a  puzzled  way.  "Which  route,  I  won- 
der, had  we  better  take?" 

"That  depends  on  where  we're  going," 
replied  the  Policeman,  helplessly.  "And 
with  the  Bird  gone,  of  course  I  don't 
know." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  little  old  gentle- 
276 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

man  promptly.     "First,  we  must  cross  the 
Glass—" 

Gwendolyn  gave  him  a  quick  glance. 
Surely  he  meant  cross  the  grass. 

"Yes,  the  Glass;  go  on,"  encouraged  the 
Officer. 

" — And  find  him."  Those  round  dark 
eyes  darted  a  quick  glance  at  Gwen- 
dolyn. 

Jane,  capering  at  his  heels,  now  inter- 
rupted. "Find  him!"  she  taunted. 
"Gwendolyn3!!  never  find  her  father  if 
she  don't  listen  to  me." 

He  ignored  her.  "Next,"  he  went  on, 
"we'll  steer  straight  for  Robin  Hood's 
Barn." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  Policeman. 
"Then  we  have  to  go  around." 

"Everybody  has  to  go  around." 

Once  more  Jane  broke  in.  "Gwen- 
dolyn," she  called,  "you'll  never  find  your 

277 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

mother.  This  precious  pair  is  takin'  you 
the  wrong  way!" 

Gwendolyn  paid  no  heed.  Ahead  the 
road  divided — to  the  left  in  a  narrow 
bridle-path,  all  loose  soil  and  hoof-prints, 
and  sharp  turns;  to  the  right  in  a  level 
thoroughfare  that  held  a  straight  course. 
She  touched  the  little  old  gentleman's  el- 
bow. "Which?"  she  whispered. 

As  the  parting  of  the  ways  was  reached, 
he  pointed.  And  she  saw  a  sign — a  sign 
with  an  arrow  directing  travelers  to  the 
right.  Under  the  arrow,  plainly  lettered, 
were  the  words: 

To  the  Bear's  Den. 

Gwendolyn  looked  her  concern.  "Do 
we  have  to  go  that  road?"  she  asked  him. 

He  nodded. 

The  next  moment,  with  a  loud  rum- 
bling of  the  eyes,  Jane  came  alongside. 

278 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  dearie/'  she  cried,  "you  couldn't 
hire  me  to  go.  And  I  wouldn't  like  to 
see  you  go.  I  think  too  much  of  you,  I 
do  indeed" 

"Hold  your  tongue !"  ordered  the  little 
old  gentleman,  crossly. 

Jane  obeyed.  Up  came  a  hand,  and  she 
seized  the  tongue-tip  in  her  front  mouth. 
But  since  there  was  a  second  tongue-tip 
in  that  back  face,  she  still  continued  her 
babbling:  "Don't  ask  me  to  trapse  over 
the  hard  pavements  on  my  poor  tired  feet, 
dearie,  just  because  you  take  your  notions. 
.  .  .  Come,  I  say!  Your  mother's  no- 
body, anyhow.  .  .  .  You  don't  know 
what  you're  sayin'  or  doin',  poor  thing! 
You're  just  wanderin',  that's  all — just 
wanderin'." 

"I'm  wandering  in  the  right  direction, 
anyhow/'  retorted  Gwendolyn,  stoutly. 
And  to  the  little  old  gentleman,  "I'm 

279 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

sorry  we're  going  this  way,  though.  I'm 
'fraid  of  Bears/' — for  the  sign  was  past 
now;  the  four  were  on  the  level  thorough- 
fare. 

The  Policeman  seemed  not  to  have  re- 
marked her  anxiety.  "And  after  the 
Den,  what  do  we  pass?"  he  questioned. 

"The  Big  Rock,"  answered  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces. 

"Do  we  have  to  turn  it?"  The  other 
spoke  with  some  annoyance.  "What's 
likely  to  come  out?  I  suppose  it  won't 
be  hiding  that  Bird." 

"There's  a  hollow  under  the  Rock," 
said  the  little  old  gentleman.  "We'll 
find  something'9  His  face  grew  grave. 

"And — and  after  we  go  by  the  Big 
Rock?"  ventured  Gwendolyn. 

The  little  old  gentleman  smiled.  "Ah, 
then!"  he  said,  " — then  we  come  to  the 
Pillery!" 

280 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh!"  She  considered  the  reply. 
Pillery — it  was  a  word  she  had  never 
chanced  upon  in  the  large  Dictionary. 
Yet  she  felt  she  could  hardly  ask  any 
questions  about  it.  She  had  asked  so 
many  already.  "It's  kind  of  you  to  an- 
swer and  answer  and  answer/'  she  said 
aloud.  "Nobody  else  ever  did  that." 

"Ask  anything  you  want  to  know,"  he 
returned  cordially.  "I'll  always  give 
you  prompt  attention.  Though  of 
course,  there  are  some  things — "  He 
hesitated. 

"Yes?'— eagerly. 

"That  only  fathers  and  mothers  can  an- 


swer.'3 


"Oh!" 

"Didn't  you  know  that?"  demanded  the 
Policeman,  surprised. 

Tee!  hee!  hee!  hee!"  snickered  Jane. 

Though  she  was  some  few  steps  in  the 

281 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

rear,  her  difficult  breathing  could  be 
plainly  heard.  She  had  laughed  so  much 
into  her  sleeve,  and  had  grown  so  stout, 
that  by  now  not  a  single  wrinkle  remained 
in  the  black  sateen;  worse — she  was  be- 
ginning to  try  every  square  inch  of  the 
cloth  sorely.  And  having  danced  every 
foot  of  the  way,  she  was  tiring. 

"Oh,  fath-er-and-moth-er  questions/' 
said  Gwendolyn. 

"Precisely,"  answered  the  little  old 
gentleman;  " — about  my  friends,  Santa 
Claus  and  the  Sand-Man,  for  in- 
stance— " 

"They're  not  friends  of  Potter's,  I  guess. 
'Cause  he—" 

" — And  the  fairies,  and  the  gnomes,  and 
the  giants;  and  Mother  Goose  and  her 
crowd.  Of  course  a  nurse  or  a  governess 
or  a  teacher  of  some  sort  might  try  to  ex- 

282 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

plain.  Wouldn't  do  any  good,  though. 
You  wouldn't  understand." 

The  Policeman  swung  his  head  back 
and  forth,  nodding.  "That's  the  worst/' 
said  he,  "of  being  a  Poor — "  Here  he 
fell  suddenly  silent,  and  spatted  the  dust 
with  his  palms  in  an  embarrassed  way. 

She  understood.  "A  Poor  Little  Rich 
Girl,"  she  said,  "who  doesn't  see  her 
fath-er  and  moth-er." 

"But  you  will,"  he  declared  deter- 
minedly, and  forged  ahead  faster  than 
ever,  white  hand  following  white  hand. 

It  was  then  that  Gwendolyn  heard  the 
nurse  muttering  and  chortling  to  herself. 
"Well,  I  never!"  exclaimed  the  tongue- 
tip  that  was  not  being  held.  "If  this 
ain't  a5  automobile  road!  Why,  it's  a 
fine  auto/^tfbile  road!  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

makes  a  difference!" 
283 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  was  startled.  What  did 
Jane  mean?  What  difference?  Why 
so  much  satisfaction  all  at  once?  She 
wished  the  others  would  listen;  would 
take  note  of  the  triumphant  air.  But 
both  were  busy,  the  little  old  gentleman 
chattering  and  pointing  ahead,  the  Police- 
man straining  to  keep  pace  and  look 
where  his  companion  directed. 

To  lessen  her  uneasiness,  Gwendolyn 
hunted  a  second  stick  of  candy.  Then 
sidled  in  between  her  two  friends.  "Oh, 
please/'  she  began  appealingly,  with  a 
glance  up  and  a  glance  down,  "I'm  'fraid 
Jane's  going  to  make  us  trouble.  Can't 
we  think  of  some  way  to  get  rid  of  her?" 

The  Policeman  twisted  his  neck  around 
until  he  could  wink  at  her  with  his  black 
eye.  "In  town,"  said  he  meaningly,  "we 
Policemen  have  a  way." 

"Oh,    tell   us!"   she  begged.    For   the 

284 


The  Poor  Little  Rich 

Man-Who-Makes-Faces  looked  keenly  in- 
terested. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  Officer — and  now 
he  halted  just  long  enough  to  raise  a 
gloved  finger  to  one  side  of  his  head  with 
a  significant  gesture — "when  we  want  to 
get  rid  of  a  person,  we  put  a  flea  in  his 


ear.'3 


Gwendolyn  blushed  rosy.  A  flea!  It 
was  an  insect  that  Miss  Royle  had  never 
permitted  her  to  mention.  Still — 

"But — but  where  could  we — er — find 
_a_a_«» 

She  had  stammered  that  far  when  she 
saw  the  little  old  gentleman  turn  his 
wrinkled  face  over  a  shoulder.  Next,  he 
jerked  an  excited  thumb.  And  looking, 
she  saw  that  Jane  was  failing  to  keep  up. 

By  now  the  nurse  had  swelled  to  aston- 
ishing proportions.  Her  body  was  as 
round  as  a  barrel.  Her  face  was  round 

285 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

too,  and  more  red  than  ever.  Her  cheeks 
were  so  puffed,  the  skin  of  her  forehead 
was  so  tight  and  shiny,  that  she  looked 
precisely  like  a  monster  copy  of  a  sanitary 
rubber  doll ! 

"She  can't  last  much  longer!  Her 
strength's  giving  out."  It  was  the  Police- 
man. And  his  voice  ended  in  a  sob. 
(Yet  the  sob  meant  nothing,  for  he  was 
showing  all  his  white  teeth  in  a  delighted 
smile.) 

"She  must  have  help!53 — this  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces.  His  voice  broke, 
too.  But  his  round,  dark  eyes  were  brim- 
ming with  laughter. 

"Who'll  help  her?'  demanded  Gwen- 
dolyn. "Nobody.  So  one  of  that  three 
is  gone  for  good!" 

She  halted  now — on  the  summit  of  a 
rise.  Up  this,  but  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, Jane  was  toiling,  with  feeble  hops 

286 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

to  the  right,  and  staggering  steps  to  the 
left,  and  faint,  fat  gasps. 

"Oh,  Gwendolyn  darlin'!"  she  called 
weepingly.  "Oh,  don't  leave  your  Jane ! 
Oh!  Oh!" 

"Fve  made  up  my  mind/'  announced 
Gwendolyn,  "to  have  the  nurse-maid  in 
the  brick  house.  So,  good-by — good- 
by." 

She  began  to  descend  rapidly,  with  the 
little  old  gentleman  in  a  shuffling  run, 
and  the  Policeman  springing  from  hand 
to  hand  as  if  he  feared  pursuit,  and  sway- 
ing his  legs  from  side  to  side  with  a  tick- 
tock^  tick-tock.  The  going  was  easy. 
Soon  the  bottom  of  the  slope  was  reached. 
Then  all  stopped  to  look  back. 

Jane  had  just  gained  the  top.  But 
was  come  to  a  standstill.  Over  the  brow 
of  the  hill  could  be  seen  only  her  full  face 

— like  a  big  red  moon. 

287; 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

At  the  sight,  Gwendolyn  felt  a  thrill  of 
joy — the  joy  of  freedom  found  again. 
"Why,  she's  not  coming  up,"  she  called 
out  delightedly.  "She's  going  down!" 
And  she  punctuated  her  words  with  a  gay 
skip. 

That  skip  proved  unfortunate.  For 
as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  she  stumbled. 
And  stumbling  stubbed  her  toe.  The  toe 
struck  two  small  stones  that  lay  partly 
embedded  in  the  road — dislodged  them— 
turned  them  end  for  end — and  sent  them 
skimming  along  the  ground. 

"Two!"  cried  the  Policeman.  "Now 
who?" 

"If  only  the  right  kind  come!35  added 
the  little  old  gentleman,  each  of  his  round 
eyes  rimmed  with  sudden  white. 

"I'll  blow  my  whistle."  Up  swung 
the  shining  bit  of  metal  on  the  end  of  its 
chain. 

288 


. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Blow  it  at  the  top  of  your  lungs!'5 

The  Policeman  had  balanced  himself 
on  his  head,  thrown  away  his  gum,  and  put 
the  whistle  against  his  lips.  Now  he 
raised  it  and  placed  it  against  his  chest, 
just  above  his  collar-button.  Then  he 
blew.  And  through  the  forest  the  blast 
rang  and  echoed  and  boomed — until  all 
the  tapers  rose  and  fell,  and  all  the  foot- 
lights flickered. 

Instantly  that  red  moon  sank  below  the 
crest  of  the  hill.  Puffs  of  smoke  rose  in 
its  place.  Then  there  was  borne  to  the 
waiting  trio  a  sound  of  chugging.  And 
the  next  instant,  with  a  purr  of  its  engine, 
and  a  whirr  of  its  wheels,  here  into  full 
sight  shot  forward  the  limousine! 

Gwendolyn  paled.  The  half-devoured 
tick  of  candy  slipped  from  her  fingers. 

Oh,  I  don't  want  to  be  shut  up  in  the 
car!"  she  cried  out.  "And  I  won't!  I 

289 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

won't!    I  WONT!"      She  scurried  be* 
hind  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

The  automobile  came  on.  Its  polished 
sides  reflected  the  varied  lights  of  the  for- 
est. Its  hated  windows  glistened.  One 
door  swung  wide,  as  if  yawning  for  a 
victim ! 

The  little  old  gentleman,  as  he  watched 
it,  seemed  interested  rather  than  appre- 
hensive. After  a  moment,  "Recollect  my 
speaking  of  the  Piper?"  he  asked. 

"Y-y-yes." 

At  the  mention  of  the  Piper,  the  Police- 
man stared  up.  "The  Pip-Piper!"  he 
protested,  stammering,  and  beginning  to 
back  away. 

At  that,  Gwendolyn  felt  renewed 
anxiety.  "The  Piper!"  she  faltered. 
"Oh,  I'll  have  to  settle  with  him."  And 
thrust  a  searching  hand  into  the  patch- 
pocket. 

290 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  Policeman  kept  on  retreating.  "I 
don't  want  to  see  him/'  he  declared. 
"He  made  me  pay  too  dear  for  my 
whistle/'  And  he  bumped  his  head 
against  his  night-stick. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  hastened 
to  him,  and  halted  him  by  grasping  him 
about  his  fast-swaying  legs.  "You  can't 
run  away  from  the  Piper,"  he  reminded. 
"So—" 

Gwendolyn  was  no  longer  frightened. 
In  her  search  for  money  she  had  found 
the  gold-mounted  leather  case.  This 
she  now  clutched,  receiving  courage  from 
the  stiff  upper-lip. 

But  the  Policeman  was  far  from  san- 
guine. Now  perspiration  and  not  tears 
glistened  on  his  forehead.  He  grasped 
his  club  with  one  shaking  hand. 

As  for  the  little  old  gentleman,  he  held 

the  curved  knife  out  in  front  of  him,  all 

291 


The  Poor  Little  RicH  Girl 

his  thin  fingers  wound  tightly  around  its 
hilt.  "What's  the  Piper  got  beside  him?" 
he  asked  in  a  tone  full  of  wonder.  "Is 
it  a  rubber -plant?" 

Gwendolyn  looked.  The  Piper  was 
leaning  over  the  steering-wheel  of  the  car. 
He  was  so  near  by  now  that  she  could 
make  him  out  clearly — a  lanky,  lean- jawed 
young  man  in  a  greasy  cap  and  Johnnie 
Blake  overalls.  Over  his  right  shoulder, 
on  a  strap,  was  suspended  a  bundle.  A 
tobacco-pipe  hung  from  a  corner  of  his 
mouth.  But  it  was  evidently  not  this 
pipe  that  had  given  him  his  title;  but 
pipes  of  a  different  kind — all  of  lead,  in 
varying  lengths.  These  were  arranged 
about  his  waist,  somewhat  like  a  long, 
uneven  fringe.  And  among  them  was  a 
pipe-wrench,  a  coupling  or  two,  and  a 
cutter. 

Beside  him  on  the  seat,   in  the  foot- 

292 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

man's  place,  was  a  queer  object.  It  was 
tall,  and  dark-blue  in  color.  (Or  was  it 
green?)'  On  one  side  of  it  were  what 
seemed  to  be  seven  long  leaves.  On  the 
other  side  were  seven  similar  leaves.  And 
as  the  car  rolled  swiftly  up,  these  fourteen 
long  leaf -like  projections  waved  gently. 

She  had  no  chance  to  examine  the  object 
further.  Something  else  claimed  her  at- 
tention. The  windowed  door  of  the 
limousine  suddenly  swung  wide,  and 
through  it,  toward  her,  was  extended  a 
long  black  beckoning  arm.  Next,  a 
freckled  face  filled  the  whole  of  the  open- 
ing, spying  this  way  and  that.  It  was 
Jane! 

"Come,  dearie,"  she  cooed.  (She  had 
let  go  the  front  tongue-tip.)  "I  wouldn't 
stay  with  them  two  any  more.  Here's 
your  beautiful  car,  love,  tfhis  is  what' 11 
take  you  fast  to  your  papa  and  mamma." 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"No!"  cried  Gwendolyn.  And  to  the 
Man-Who-Makes-Faces,  "She  was  'fraid 
of  the  Piper  just  a  little  while  ago.  Now, 
she's  riding  around  with  him.  /  think 
he's—5' 

"Ssh!"  warned  the  little  old  gentleman, 
speaking  low.  "We  have  to  have  him. 
And  he  has  his  good  points." 

The  Piper  was  staring  at  Gwendolyn 
impertinently.  Now  he  climbed  down 
from  his  seat,  all  his  pipes  tinkling  and 
tankling  as  he  moved,  and  gave  her  a 
mocking  salute,  quite  as  if  he  knew  her — 
yet  without  removing  the  tobacco-pipe 
from  between  his  lips,  or  the  greasy  cap 
from  his  hair. 

"Well,  if  here  ain't  the  P.  L.  R.  G.," 
he  exclaimed  rudely. 

As  she  got  a  better  view  of  him  she  re- 
membered that  she  had  met  him  before— 
in  her  nursery,  that  fortunate  morning  the 

294 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

hot-water  pipe  burst.  He  was  the  very 
Piper  that  had  been  called  in  to  make 
plumbing  repairs ! 

"Good-evening/5  said  Gwendolyn,  nod- 
ding courteously — but  staying  close  to 
the  little  old  gentleman.  For  Jane  had 
summoned  strength  enough  to  topple  out 
of  the  limousine  and  teeter  forward. 
Now  she  was  kneeling  in  the  road,  crook- 
ing a  coaxing  finger,  and  gurgling  in- 
vitingly. 

The  Piper  scowled  at  the  nurse.  "Say! 
What  do  you  think  you're  doin'?"  he 
demanded.  "Singin'  a  duet  with  your- 
self?" Then  turning  upon  the  Police- 
man, "Off  your  beat,  ain't  you?"  he 
inquired  impudently;  when,  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  he  swung  round  upon 
the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  "Old  gent," 
he  began  tauntingly,  "I  can't  collect  real 
money  for  that  dozen  ears."  And  threw 

295 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

out  an  arm  toward  the  object  on  the 
driver's  seat. 

Gwendolyn  looked  a  second  time.  And 
saw  a  horrid  and  unnatural  sight.  For 
the  object  was  a  man,  straight  enough, 
broad-shouldered  enough,  with  arms  and 
legs,  feet  and  hands,  and  a  small  head ;  but 
a  man  shockingly  disfigured.  For  down 
either  side  of  him,  projecting  from  head 
and  shoulders  and  arms,  were  ears — long, 
hairy,  mulish  ears,  that  wriggled  horribly, 
one  moment  unfolding  themselves  to 
catch  every  sound,  the  next  flopping  about 
ridiculously. 

"Why,  he's  all  ears!"  she  gasped. 

The  little  old  gentleman  started  for- 
ward. "It's  that  dozen  I  boxed!"  he  an- 
nounced. "Hey!  Come  out  of  there !" 

Gwendolyn's  heart  sank.  Now  she 
knew.  From  the  first  her  fear  had  been 
that  one  of  the  dreaded  three  would  come 

296 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

and  fetch  her  out  of  the  Land  before  she 
could  find  her  parents.  And  here,  at  the 
very  moment  when  she  hoped  to  leave  the 
worst  of  the  trio  behind,  here  was  another ! 
— to  hamper  and  tattle  and  thwart. 

For  the  rubber  plant  was  Thomas ! 

And  now  all  at  once  there  was  the  great- 
est excitement.  The  Man-Who-Makes- 
Faces  seized  Thomas  by  an  ear  and  drag- 
ged him  to  the  ground,  all  the  while  up- 
braiding him  loudly.  And  while  these 
two  were  occupied,  the  Piper  swaggered 
toward  the  Policeman,  his  pipes  and  im- 
plements striking  and  jangling  together. 

"I  want  my  money,"  he  bellowed. 

"I  don't  owe  you  anything!"  retorted 
the  Policeman. 

All  this  gave  Jane  the  opportunity  she 
wished.  She  advanced  upon  Gwendolyn. 
"Come,  sweetie,"  she  wheedled.  "Rich 

little  girls  don't  hike  along  the  streets  like 

297 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

common  poor  little  girls.  So  jump  in,  and 
pretend  you're  a  Queen,  and  have  a  grand 
ride—" 

Now  all  of  a  sudden  a  terrible  inclina- 
tion to  obey  seized  Gwendolyn.  There 
yawned  that  door — here  burned  those  red- 
dish eyes,  compelling  her  forward  into  a 
dreaded  grasp — 

She  screamed,  covering  her  face. 

In  that  moment  of  danger  it  was  the 
Policeman  who  came  to  her  rescue.  Elud- 
ing the  Piper,  he  ran,  hand  over  hand,  to 
the  side  of  the  car,  balanced  himself  on 
his  level  head,  and  waved  his  club. 

"Move  on!"  he  ordered  in  a  deep  voice 
(precisely  as  Gwendolyn  had  heard  offi- 
cers order  at  crowded  crossings) ;  "move 
on,  there!" 

The  limousine  obeyed!  With  no  one 
touching  the  steering-gear,  the  engine  be- 
gan to  chug,  the  wheels  to  whirr.  And 

298 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

purring  again,  like  some  great  good-na- 
tured live  thing,  it  gained  momentum, 
took  the  road  in  a  cloud  of  pink  dust,  and, 
rounding  a  distant  turn,  disappeared  from 
sight. 


299 


CHAPTER  XII 

TT  occurred  to  Gwendolyn  that  it  would 
be  a  very  good  idea  to  stop  turning 
stones.  The  first  one  set  bottom-side  up 
had  resulted  in  the  arrival  of  Jane. 
And  whereas  the  Policeman  had  appeared 
when  the  second  was  dislodged,  here,  fol- 
lowing the  accidental  stub  of  a  toe,  were 
these  two — the  Piper  and  Thomas. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  hurried 
across  to  her,  his  expression  dubious. 
"Bitter  pill!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  side- 
wise  jerk  of  the  ragged  hat.  "Gall  and 
wormwood!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  For — sure  enough! — there 
was  an  ill-flavored  taste  on  her  lips — a 
taste  that  made  her  regret  having  lost  the 

candy. 

300 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Next,  the  Policeman  came  tick-tocking 
up.  'The  scheme  was  to  kidnap  you,"  he 
declared  wrathf ully. 

"And  keep  me  from  finding  my  fath-er 
and  moth-er,"  added  Gwendolyn.  Now 
she  understood  why  Jane  was  so  pleased 
with  the  choice  of  the  automobile  road! 
And  she  realized  that  all  along  there  was 
never  any  danger  of  her  being  kidnaped 
by  strangers^  but  by  the  two  who,  their 
past  ill-feeling  evidently  forgotten,  were 
at  this  very  moment  chuckling  and  chat- 
tering together,  ugly  heads  touching—- 
the eary  head  and  the  head  with  the 
double  face! 

Seeing  the  Policeman  and  the  little  old 
gentleman  in  conversation  with  Gwen- 
dolyn, the  Piper  slouched  over.  "Look 
a-here!"  he  began  roughly,  addressing  all 
three;  "you're  goin'  to  make  a  great  big 

mistake  if  you  antagonize  a  man  that  be- 

301 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

longs  to  a  Labor  Union."  (Just  so  had 
he  spoken  the  day  he  fixed  the  broken  hot- 
water  pipe.) 

"Bosh!"  cried  the  Policeman.  "What 
do  we  care  about  him!  Why,  he'll  never 
even  get  through  the  Gate!" 

Gwendolyn  was  puzzled.  What  Gate  ? 
And  why  would  Thomas  not  get  through 
it?  Then  looking  round  to  where  he  was 
conspiring  with  Jane,  she  saw  what  she 
believed  was  a  very  good  explanation: 
He  would  never  even  get  through  the 
Gate  because  (a  simple  reason!)  the  nurse 
would  not  be  able  to  get  through. 

For  by  now  Jane  was  not  only  as  round 
as  a  barrel,  but  she  was  fully  as  large — 
what  with  so  much  happy  giggling  over 
Thomas's  arrival.  Moreover,  having 
toppled  sidewise,  she  looked  like  a  barrel 
— a  barrel  upholstered  in  black  sateen, 

302 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  a  neat  touch  of  white  at  collar  and 
cuffs! 

"He's  been  in  trouble  before/'  contin- 
ued the  Policeman,  stormily.  "But  this 
time — !"  And  letting  himself  down  flat 
upon  his  head,  he  shook  both  neatly  shod 
feet  in  the  Piper's  face. 

It  was  now  that  Gwendolyn  chanced, 
for  the  first  time,  to  examine  the  latter' s 
bundle.  And  was  surprised  to  discover 
that  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  large  poke- 
bonnet — of  the  fluffy,  lacy,  ribbony  sort. 
And  she  was  admiring  it,  for  it  was  of 
black  silk,  and  handsome,  when  something 
within  it  stirred! 

She  retreated — until  the  night-stick 
and  the  kidnaper  knife  were  between 
her  and  the  poke.  "Hadn't  we  better  be 
st-starting?"  she  faltered  nervously. 

The  Piper  marked  her  manner,  and 
303 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

showed  instant  resentment  of  it.  "This 
here  thing  was  handed  me  once  in  part- 
payment/'  he  explained.  "And  I  ain't 
been  able  to  get  rid  of  it  since.  Every 
single  day  it's  harder  to  lug  around.  Be- 
cause, you  see,  he's  growin'." 

At  that,  the  Policeman  and  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces  exchanged  a  glance 
full  of  significance.  And  both  shrugged 
— the  Policeman  with  such  an  emphatic 
upside-down  shrug  that  his  shoulders 
brushed  the  ground. 

Gwendolyn's  curiosity  emboldened 
her.  "He?"  she  questioned. 

"The  pig." 

tfhe  pig!  Gwendolyn's  pink  mouth 
opened  in  amazement.  Here  was  the  very 
pig  that  she  heard  belonged  in  a  poke ! 

The  Piper  was  glowering  at  Jane,  who 
was  rocking  gently  from  side  to  side,  dis- 
playing first  one  face,  then  the  other. 

304 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Well,  /  call  that  dancing/'  he  declared. 
And  pulling  out  a  small,  well-thumbed  ac- 
count-book, jotted  down  some  figures. 

Gwendolyn  tried  to  think  of  something 
to  say — while  feeling  mistrust  toward  the 
Piper,  and  abhorrence  toward  the  poke  and 
its  contents.  At  last  she  took  refuge  in 
polite  inquiry.  "When  did  you  come  out 
from  town?55  she  asked. 

The  Piper  grunted  rather  ill-humoredly 
(or  was  it  the  pig? — she  could  not  be  cer- 
tain), and  colored  up  a  little.  "I  didn't 
come  out,"  he  answered  in  his  surly 
fashion.  Whereupon  he  fell  to  fitting  a 
coupling  upon  the  ends  of  two  pipes. 

"No  ?" — inquisitively. 

"I — er — got  run  out." 

"Oh!" 

Again  the  Policeman  and  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces  exchanged  a  significant 
glance. 

305 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

:'You  see,"  went  on  the  Piper,  "in  the 
City  everybody's  in  debt.  Well,  I  have 
to  have  my  money,  don't  I?  So  I  dunned 
'em  all  good.  But  maybe — er — a  speck 
too  much.  So — " 

"Oh,  dear!"  breathed  Gwendolyn. 

"Of  course,  I've  never  been  what  you 
might  call  popular.  Who  would  be — if 
everybody  owed  him  money." 

"Huh!"  snorted  the  Policeman. 

"You  overcharge,"  asserted  the  little  old 
gentleman. 

Gwendolyn  hastened  to  forestall  any 

heated  reply  from  the  Piper.     :cYou  don't 

think    your    pig    had    anything    to    do 

with    it?"    she    suggested    considerately. 

:  'Cause  do — do  nice  people  like  pigs?" 

"The  pig  was  never  in  sight,"  asserted 
the  Piper.  "Guess  that's  one  reason  why 
I  can't  sell  him.  What  people  don't  see 
they  don't  want  to  buy — even  when  it's 

306 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

covered  up  stylish."  (Here  he  regarded 
the  poke  with  an  expression  of  entire  sat- 
isfaction.) 

The  little  company  was  well  on  its  way 
by  now — though  Gwendolyn  could  not  re- 
call the  moment  of  starting.  The  Piper 
had  not  waited  to  be  invited,  but  strolled 
along  with  the  others,  his  birch-stemmed 
tobacco-pipe  in  a  corner  of  his  mouth,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  the  pig-poke  a- 
swing  at  his  elbow. 

Thomas,  left  to  get  Jane  along  as  best 
he  could,  had  managed  most  ingeniously. 
The  nurse  was  cylindrical.  All  he  had  to 
do,  therefore,  was  to  give  her  momentum 
over  the  smooth  windings  of  the  road  by 
an  occasional  smart  shove  with  both 
hands. 

Which  made  it  clear  that  the  likelihood 
of  losing  Jane,  of  leaving  her  behind,  was 
lessening  with  each  moment!  For  now 

307 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  more  the  nurse  laughed  the  easier  it 
would  be  to  get  her  along. 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Gwendolyn,  with  a 
sad  shake  of  her  yellow  head  as  Jane  came 
trundling  up,  both  fat  arms  folded  to  keep 
them  out  of  the  way. 

"If  she  stopped  dancin'  where  would  / 
come  in?"  demanded  the  Piper,  resent- 
fully. The  pig  moved  in  the  poke.  He 
trounced  the  poor  thing  irritably. 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  now  be- 
gan to  speak — in  a  curious,  chanting 
fashion.  "The  mode  of  locomotion 
adapted  by  this  woman,"  said  he,  "rather 
adds  to,  then  detracts  from,  her  value  as 
a  nurse.  Think  what  facilities  she  has 
for  amusing  a  child! — on,  say,  an  exten- 
sive slope  of  lawn.  And  her  ability  to 
see  two  ways — practically  at  once — gives 
her  further  value.  Would  she  ever  let  a 

young  charge  fall  over  a  cliff?" 

308 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  barrel  was  whopping  over  and  over 
— noiselessly,  except  for  the  faint  chatter 
of  Jane's  tortoise-shell  teeth.  Behind  it 
was  Thomas,  limp-eared  by  now,  and  per- 
spiring, but  faithful  to  his  task. 

"The  best  thing/'  whispered  Gwen- 
dolyn, reaching  to  touch  a  ragged  sleeve, 
"would  be  to  get  rid  of  Thomas.  Then 
she—" 

The  Policeman  heard.  "Get  rid  of 
Thomas?"  he  repeated.  "Easy  enough. 
'Look  on  the  ground." 

She  looked. 

"See  the  h's?" 

Sure  enough,  the  road  was  fairly  strewn 
with  the  sixth  consonant! — both  in  small 
letters  and  capitals. 

"Been  dropped,"  went  on  the  Officer. 

She  had  heard  the  expression  "dropping 
his  h's."  Now  she  understood  it.  "Oh, 
but  how'll  these  help?" 

309 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Show  'em  to  Thomas!" 

She  approached  the  barrel — and  pointed 
down. 

Thomas  followed  her  pointing.  In- 
stantly his  expression  became  furious. 
And  one  by  one  his  ears  stood  up  alertly. 
"It's  him!"  he  shouted.  "Oh,  wait  till  I 
get  my  hands  on  him!"  Then  heaving 
hard  at  the  barrel,  he  raced  off  along  the 
alphabetical  trail. 

Gwendolyn  was  compelled  to  run  to 
keep  up  with  him.  "What's  the  trouble  T 
she  asked  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

"A  Dictionarial  difference,"  he  an- 
swered, his  dark-skinned  face  very  grave. 

"Oh!"  (She  resolved  to  hunt  Diction- 
arial up  the  moment  she  was  back  in  the 
school-room.) 

Thomas  was  shouting  once  more  from 
where  he  labored  in  the  lead.  "I'll  mur- 


310 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

der  him!"  he  threatened.  "This  time  Fll 
mur-r-der  him!" 

Murder?  That  made  matters  clear! 
There  was  only  one  person  against  whom 
Thomas  bore  such  hot  ill-will.  "It's  the 
King's  English/'  she  panted. 

"It's  the  King's  English,"  agreed  the 
Policeman,  tick-tocking  in  rapid  tempo. 

She  reached  again  to  tug  gently  at  a 
ragged  sleeve.  "Do  you  know  him?"  she 
asked. 

The  round  black  eyes  of  the  little  old 
gentleman  shone  proudly  down  at  her. 
"All  nice  people  are  well  acquainted  with 
the  King's  English,"  he  declared — which 
statement  she  had  often  heard  in  the 
nursery.  Now,  however,  it  embarrassed 
her,  for  she  was  compelled  to  admit  to  her- 
self that  she  was  not  acquainted  with  the 
King's  English — and  he  a  personage  of 
such  consequence ! 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  Piper  hurried  alongside,  all  his 
pipes  rattling.  "Just  where  are  we  goin', 
anyhow?"  he  asked  petulantly. 

"We're  going  to  the  Bear's  Den/3  in- 
formed the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

"And  here's  the  Zoo  now,"  announced 
the  Policeman. 

It  was  unmistakably  the  Zoo.  Gwen- 
dolyn recognized  the  main  entrance.  For 
above  it,  in  monster  letters  formed  by 
electric  lights,  was  a  sign,  bulbous  and 
blinding — 

Villa  Sites  Borax  Starch  Shirts. 

"So  this  is  the  Gate  you  meant!"  she 
called  to  the  Policeman. 

The  Gate  was  flung  invitingly  wide. 
Thomas  rushed  toward  it,  his  fourteen  ears 
flopping  horribly. 

"And  here  he  is!"  cried  the  Policeman. 
"On  guard." 

312 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  next  moment — "'Alt!"  ordered  a 
harsh  voice — a  voice  with  an  English  ac- 
cent. 

There  was  a  flash  of  scarlet  before 
Gwendolyn's  face — of  scarlet  so  vivid 
that  it  blinded.  She  flung  up  a  hand. 
But  she  was  not  frightened.  She  knew 
what  it  was.  And  rubbed  at  her  eyes 
hastily  to  clear  them. 

He  stood  in  full  view. 

As  far  as  outward  appearance  was  con- 
cerned, he  was  exactly  the  looking  person 
she  had  pictured  in  her  own  mind — young 
and  tall  and  lusty,  with  a  florid  counte- 
nance and  hair  as  blonde  as  her  own. 
And  he  wore  the  uniform  of  an  English 
soldier — short  coat  of  scarlet,  all  gold 
braid  and  brass  buttons;  dark  trousers 
with  stripes;  and  a  little  round  cap  with  a 
chin  strap. 

But  he  carried  no  cane.  Instead,  as  he 
313 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

stepped  forward,  nose  up,  chin  up,  eyes 
very  bold,  he  swung  a  most  amazing 
weapon.  It  was  as  scarlet  as  his  own  coat, 
as  long  as  he  was  tall,  and  polished  to  a 
high  degree.  But  it  was  not  unbending, 
like  a  sword:  It  was  limber  to  whippi- 
ness,  so  that  as  he  twirled  it  about  his 
blonde  head  it  snapped  and  whistled. 
And  Gwendolyn  remembered  having  seen 
others  exactly  like  it  hanging  on  the  bill- 
board at  the  Face-Shop.  For  it  was  a 
tongue ! 

"Aw!  Mah  word!'5  exclaimed  the  King's 
English,  surveying  the  halted  group. 

Gwendolyn  couid  not  imagine  what 
word  he  had  in  mind,  but  she  thought  him 
very  fine.  With  his  air  of  proud  self-as- 
surance, and  his  fine  brilliant  uniform,  he 
was  strikingly  like  her  own  red-coated  toy ! 
Anxious  to  make  a  favorable  impression 

3*4 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

upon  him,  she  smoothed  the  gingham  dress 
hastily,  brushed  back  straying  wisps  of 
yellow,  straightened  her  shoulders,  and 
assumed  a  cordial  expression  of  counte- 
nance. 

"How  do  you  do,"  she  said,  curtseying. 

He  saluted.    But  blocked  the  way. 

"May  we  go  into  the  Zoo,  please?" 

His  hand  jerked  down  to  his  side. 
"One  at  a  time,"  he  answered;  " — all  but 
Thomas." 

Thomas  had  come  short  with  the  others. 
Now  as  Gwendolyn  looked  at  him  she 
saw  that  he,  also,  was  armed  with  a  tongue 
— a  warped  and  twisted  affair,  rough,  but 
thin  along  its  edges. 

"If  you  try  to  keep  me  out,"  he  cried, 
"I  certainly  will  murder  you!" 

At  this  juncture  the  Policeman  pit-pat- 
ted forward  and  took  his  station  at  the 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

left  of  the  Gate.  Next,  the  King's  Eng- 
lish stepped  back  until  he  stood  at  the 
right.  Between  them,  hand  in  hand  once 
more,  passed  Gwendolyn  and  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces. 

The  Piper  came  next.  "Call  that  a' 
English  tongue?"  he  asked,  with  an 
impudent  grin  at  the  soldier's  shining 
weapon. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Pah!" 

Now  Thomas  gave  Jane  a  quick  shove 
forward — but  a  shove  which  sent  her  only 
as  far  as  the  Gate. 

The  King's  English  stared  down  at  her. 
"How  are  you?"  he  said  coldly. 

"I'm  awful  uncomfortable,"  was  the 
mournful  answer. 

"Then  take  off  your  stays,"  he  advised. 
Whereat  the  polished  tongue  glanced 
through  the  light,  caught  Jane  fairly 

316 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

around  the  waist,  and  with  a  swift  recoil 
brought  her  to  her  feet ! 

And  now  Gwendolyn,  astonished,  saw 
that  too  much  laughter  had  again  re- 
molded that  sateen  bulk.  The  nurse  had 
grown  woefully  heavy  about  the  shoulders 
—which  put  a  fearful  strain  on  the 
stitches  of  her  bodice!  and  gave  her  the 
appearance  of  a  gigantic  humming-top! 
As  she  swayed  a  moment  on  her  wide-toed 
shoes — shoes  now  utterly  lacking  buttons 
—the  King's  English  again  struck  out, 
caught  her,  this  time,  around  the  neck, 
and  sent  her  spinning  through  the  Gate ! 

"Zing*g-g~g!"  she  laughed  dizzily — 
that  laugh  the  high,  persistent  note  of  a 
top! 

Thomas  attempted  to  follow.  "I  just 
will  come  in,"  he  cried,  wielding  his 
warped  weapon  with  a  flourish. 

"You  shall  not!"    To  bar  the  way,  the 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

King's   English   thrust  out  his  polished 
tongue. 

"I  will!"    Crack!  Crack! 

"You  won't!"    Crack!  Crack! 

The  fight  was  on !  For  the  combatants, 
tongue's-length  from  each  other,  were 
prowling  to  and  fro  menacingly. 

"Oh,  there's  going  to  be  a  tongue-lash- 
ing," cried  Gwendolyn,  frightened. 

"I'm  the  King's  Hinglish!"— it  was 
the  soldier's  slogan. 

"This  is  me!"  sang  Thomas,  saucily 
flicking  at  a  brass  button.  His  face  was 
all  cunning. 

Then  how  the  tongues  popped ! 

"This  is  I!"  corrected  the  King's  Eng^ 
lish  promptly.  But  his  face  got  a  trifle 
more  florid. 

"Steady!"  counseled  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman. 

"I'm  hall  right,"  the  other  cried  back. 
318 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  Piper!"  said  Gwendolyn;  "which 
side  are  you  on?" 

The  Piper  shifted  his  tobacco  pipe  from 
one  corner  of  his  mouth  to  the  other.  "I'm 
for  the  man  that's  got  the  cask"  he  de- 
clared. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  Jane's  choice. 
Seeing  Thomas's  momentary  advantage, 
she  came  spinning  close  to  the  Gate. 
"Use  h-words,  Thomas!"  she  hummed. 
"Useh-words!" 

Thomas  acted  upon  her  advice.  "Hack 
and  hit  and  hammer!"  he  charged. 
"Haggle  and  halve  and  hamper!  Halt 
and  hang  and  harass!" 

f  'Ack  and  'it  and  'ammer!"  struck  back 
the  King's  English,  beginning  to  breath 
hard.  "Aggie  and  'alve  and  'amper! 
'Alt  and  'ang  and  'arass!" 

As  the  tongues  met,  Gwendolyn  saw 
small  bright  splinters  fly  this  way  and  that 

319 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

— a  shower  of  them!  These  splinters 
darted  downward,  falling  upon  the  road. 
And  each,  as  it  lit,  was  an  h ! 

The  Policeman  was  frightened. 
"Which  is  your  best  foot?"  he  called. 

The  King's  English  indicated  his  right. 
"This!" 

"Then  put  it  forward!" 

"My  goodness !"  exclaimed  Gwendolyn. 
"Am  I  seeing  this,  or  is  it  just  Pretend?" 

Thomas  now  warmed  to  the  fray. 
"Harm!"  he  scourged.  "Harness!  Hash! 
Hew!  Hoodwink!  Hurt  and  hurk!" 

"'Eavens!"  breathed  the  King's  Eng- 
lish. 

"Turn  your  cold  shoulder,"  advised  the 
little  old  gentleman. 

The  King's  English  thrust  out  the  right. 
And  it  helped!  "Oh,  hayches  don't  mat- 
ter," he  panted.  "I'm  hall  right  has  long 
has  'is  grammar  doesn't  get  too  bad." 

320 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

And  off  came  one  of  Thomas's  ears — a 
large  one — and  blew  along  the  ground 
like  a  great  leaf. 

That  was  an  unfortunate  boast.  For 
Thomas,  enraged  by  the  loss  of  an  ear, 
fought  with  renewed  zeal.  "If  you  see  he, 
just  tell  I!"  he  shouted. 

The  King's  English  went  pallid.  "If 
you  see  'im,  just  tell  me/'  he  gasped, 
meeting  Thomas  gallantly — with  the  loss 
of  only  one  splinter. 

"Oh,  I  want  you  to  win!"  called  Gwen- 
dolyn to  him. 

But  the  contest  was  unequal.  That  was 
now  plain.  The  King's  English  had 
polish  and  finish.  Thomas  had  more: 
his  tongue,  newly  sharpened,  cut  deep  at 
each  blow. 

Unequal  as  was  the  contest,  Jane's  in- 
terference a  second  time  made  it  more  so. 

For  as  the  fighters  trampled  to  and  fro. 

321 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

seeking  the  better  of  each  other,  she 
twirled  near  again.  "Try  your  verbs, 
Thomas!"  she  counseled.  "Try  your 
verbs!" 

Eagerly  Thomas  grasped  this  second 
hint.  "By  which  I  could  was!"  he  cried, 
with  a  curling  stroke  of  the  warped 
tongue;  "or  shall  am!" 

At  that,  the  King's  English  showed  dis- 
tressing weakness.  He  seemed  scarcely 
to  have  enough  strength  for  another  snap. 
"By  w'ich  I  could  be!"  he  whipped  back 
feebly;  "or  shall  'ave  been!"  And  stag- 
gered sidewise. 

Now  the  warped  and  twisted  tongue  be- 
gan to  chant  past-participially :  "I  done! 
I  done!!  I  done!!!" 

'"Elp!"  implored  the  King's  English, 
fairly  wan.  "Friends,  this — this  fellow 
'as  treated  me  houtrageously  for — for  ya- 


aws!' 


322 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  worser  and  worser  and  worser," 
pursued  Thomas,  changing  suddenly  to 
adverbs. 

"Rawly  now—!'5  The  King's  English 
tottered  to  his  knees. 

"I  did,"  prompted  Gwendolyn,  eager  to 
help  him. 

"I  did,"  repeated  the  King's  English — 
but  the  polished  tongue  slipped  from  his 
grasp ! 

"I  seen!"  followed  up  Thomas.  "I 
sung ! ' '  Crackl  Crack ! 

It  was  the  last  fatal  onslaught. 

The  scarlet-coated  figure  fell  forward. 
Yet  bravely  he  strove  again  to  give 
tongue-lash  for  tongue-lash — by  reaching 
out  one  palsied  hand  toward  his  weapon. 

"I — I — s-a-w!"  he  muttered;  "I  s-s-s-i- 
ng!"  — And  expired,  with  his  last 
breath  gasping  good  grammar. 

Instantly  Thomas  leaped  the  prostrate 
323 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

figure  and  strode  to  the  Gate.  He  was 
breathing  hard,  but  looking  about  him 
boldly.  "Now  I  come  through/5  he 
boasted. 

"O-o-o!"  It  was  Gwendolyn's  cry. 
"Officer,  don't  let  him!  Dont!" 

In  answer  to  her  appeal,  the  Policeman 
seized  Thomas  by  a  lower  ear  and  shoved 
him  against  a  gate-post.  "You've  com- 
mitted murder!"  he  cried.  "And  I  arrest 
you!" 

"Tongue-tie  him!"  shouted  the  little  old 
gentleman,  springing  to  jerk  Thomas's 
weapon  out  of  his  hand,  and  to  snatch  up 
the  nicked  and  splintered  v/eapon  of  the 
vanquished  soldier. 

Under  the  great  blazing  sign  of  the  Zoo 
entrance  the  capture  was  accomplished. 
And  in  a  moment,  from  his  feet  to  his  very 
ears,  Thomas  was  wrapped,  arms  tight 

324 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

against  sides,  in  the  scarlet  toils  of  the 
tongues. 

"So!"  exclaimed  the  little  old  gentle- 
man as  he  tied  a  last  knot.  "Thomas'll 
never  bother  my  little  girl  again."  And 
taking  Gwendolyn  by  the  hand,  he  led  her 
away. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  gone  some  dis- 
tance that  she  turned  to  take  a  last  look 
back.  And  saw,  there  beside  the  wide 
Gate,  a  rubber-plant,  its  long  leaves  wav- 
ing gently.  It  was  Thomas,  bound  se- 
curely, and  abandoned. 

Yet  she  did  not  pity  him.  He  had 
murdered  the  King's  English,  and  he  de- 
served his  punishment.  Furthermore,  he 
looked  so  green,  so  cool,  so  ornamental ! 


325 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OO  far,  the  Piper  had  seemed  to  be  no 
one's  friend — unless,  perhaps,  his  own. 
He  had  lagged  along,  surly  or  boisterous 
by  turns,  and  careless  of  his  manners ;  not 
even  showing  respect  to  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces  and  the  Policeman!  But 
now  Gwendolyn  remarked  a  change  in 
him.  For  as  he  spoke  to  her,  he  took  his 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth — under  the  pretext 
of  cleaning  it. 

"Say!"  he  began  in  a  cautious  under- 
tone; "I'll  give  you  some  advice  about 
Jane." 

Gwendolyn  was  looking  about  her  at 
the  Zoo.  Its  roofs  seemed  countless. 
They  touched,  having  no  streets  between 
them  anywhere,  and  reached  as  far  as  she 

326 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

could  see.  They  were  all  heights,  all 
shapes,  all  varieties — some  being  level, 
others  coming  to  a  point  at  one  corner,  a 
few  ending  in  a  tower.  One  tower,  on  the 
outer-most  edge  of  the  Zoo,  was  square, 
and  tapered. 

"Jane?"  she  said  indifferently.  "Oh, 
she's  only  a  top/' 

"Only  a  top!"  It  was  the  little  old 
gentleman.  "Why,  that  makes  her  all 
the  more  dangerous!" 

"Because  she's  spinning  so  fast" — the 
Policeman  balanced  on  one  arm  while  he 
shook  an  emphatic  finger — "that  she'll 
stir  up  trouble!" 

"Well,  then,  what  shall  I  do?"  asked 
Gwendolyn.  For,  elated  over  seeing 
Thomas  disposed  of  so  completely — and 
yet  with  so  much  mercy — she  was  impa- 
tient at  hearing  that  she  still  had  reason 
to  fear  the  nurse. 

327 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  Piper  took  his  time  about  replying. 
He  sharpened  one  end  of  a  match,  thrust 
the  bit  of  pine  into  the  stem  of  his  pipe, 
jabbed  away  industriously,  threw  away 
the  match5  blew  through  the  stem  once  or 
twice,  and  turned  the  bowl  upside  down  to 
make  it  plop^  plop  against  a  palm.  Then, 
"Keep  Jane  laughing"  he  counseled, 
" — and  see  what  happens'' 

Jane  was  alongside,  spinning  com- 
fortably on  her  shoe-leather  point.  Now, 
as  if  she  had  overheard,  or  guessed  a  plot, 
sudden  uneasiness  showed  on  both  her 
countenances,  and  she  increased  her 
speed. 

"You  done  up  Thomas,  the  lot  of  you," 
she  charged,  as  she  whirled  away.  "But 
you  don't  git  me" 

"And  we  won't,"  declared  Gwendolyn, 
"if  we  don't  hurry  up  and  trip  her." 

"A  good  idear!"  chimed  in  the  Piper. 

328 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"If  we  only  had  some  string!"  cried  the 
little  old  gentleman. 

"String  won't  do/'  said  the  Policeman. 
"We  need  rope." 

There  was  a  high  wind  sweeping  the 
roofs.  And  as  the  three  began  to  run 
about,  searching,  it  fluttered  the  Police- 
man's coat-tails,  swelled  out  the  Piper's 
cap,  and  tugged  at  the  ragged  garb  of  the 
Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

"Here's  a  piece  of  clothes-line!" 

The  Policeman  made  the  find — catch- 
ing sight  of  the  line  where  it  dangled 
from  the  edge  of  a  roof.  The  others 
hastened  to  join  him.  And  each  seized 
the  rope  in  both  hands,  the  Piper  staying 
at  one  end  of  it,  the  little  old  gentleman 
at  the  opposite,  while  Gwendolyn  and  the 
Policeman  posted  themselves  at  proper 
distances  between.  Then  forward  in  a 
row  swept  all,  carrying  the  rope  with  them. 

329 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

It  was  a  curious  one  of  its  kind — as  black 
as  if  it  had  been  tarred,  thick  at  the  mid- 
dle, but  noticeably  thin  at  one  end. 

Jane  saw  their  design.  "Ba-a-a!"  she 
mocked.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  you!  I'm 
goin'  to  turn  the  Big  Rock,  tfken  you'll 
see !"  And  she  made  straight  toward  the 
square  tower  in  the  distance. 

"Oh!"  It  was  the  little  old  gentleman, 
beard  blown  sidewise  by  the  wind.  "We 
musn't  let  her!" 

The  Piper,  in  his  excitement,  jounced 
the  pig  so  hard  that  it  squealed.  "We 
ought  to  be  able,"  he  panted,  "to  manage 
a  top." 

"Jane!"  bellowed  the  Policeman,  gal- 
loping hard.  "You  must  not  injure  that 
shaft!" 

Then  Gwendolyn  realized  that  the 
square  tower  toward  which  the  nurse  was 
spinning  was  the  Big  Rock.  And  she 

330 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

recognized  it  as  a  certain  great  pillar  of 
pink  granite,  up  and  down  the  sides  of 
which,  deep  cut  by  chisels,  were  written 
strange  words. 

It  rose  just  ahead.  Answering  the  Offi- 
cer with  a  shrill,  scoffing  laugh,  Jane  bore 
down  upon  it.  Aided  by  the  wind,  she 
made  top  speed. 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Her 
pursuers  fairly  tore  after  her.  And  the 
Piper,  who  made  the  fastest  progress, 
gained — until  he  was  at  her  very  heels. 
Then  with  a  final  leap,  he  passed  her,  and 
circled,  dragging  the  rope. 

It  made  a  loop  about  the  buttonless 
shoes — a  loop  that  tightened  as  the  little 
old  gentleman  came  short,  as  the  Piper 
halted.  Each  gave  a  pull — 

With  disastrous  result !  For  as  the  line 
came  taut,  up  Jane  went! — caught 
bodily  from  the  ground.  And  still  spin- 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ning,  whizzed  forward  in  that  high  wind 
and  struck  the  granite  squarely. 

She  fell  to  the  ground,  toppling  side- 
wise,  and  bulking  large. 

But  the  shaft!  It  began  to  move- 
slowly  at  first — to  tip  forward,  farther  and 
farther.  When,  gaining  velocity,  with  a 
great  grinding  noise,  down  from  off  the 
massive  cube  upon  which  it  stood  it  came 
crashing ! 

Instantly  a  chorus  of  cries  arose:  "Oh, 
she's  bumped  over  the  obelisk!  She's 
bumped  over  the  obelisk!" 

With  the  cries,  and  sounding  from  be- 
neath the  tapered  end  of  the  Big  Rock, 
mingled  ferocious  growls — "Rar!  Rarl 
Rarl  Rar!" 

And  in  that  same  moment,  the  four  who 
were  holding  the  rope  felt  it  begin  to 
writhe  and  twist  in  their  grasp! — like 
a  live  thing.  And  its  black  length  took 

332 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

on  a  scaly  look,  glittering  in  that  pink 
glow  as  if  it  were  covered  with  small  ebon 
paillettes.  It  grew  cold  and  clammy.  At 
its  thicker  end  Gwendolyn  saw  that  the 
Piper  was  supporting  a  head — a  head  with 
small,  fiery  eyes  and  a  tongue  flame-like 
in  its  color  and  swift  darting.  Next, 
"Hiss-s-s-s-s!"  And  with  one  hideous 
contortion,  the  huge  black  body  wrung 
itself  free  and  coiled. 

Once  Gwendolyn  had  boasted  that  she 
was  not  afraid  of  snakes.  And  now  she 
did  not  flee,  though  the  black  coils  were 
piled  at  her  very  feet.  For  she  recognized 
the  serpent.  There  was  no  mistaking  that 
thin  face  and  those  small  eyes.  More- 
over, a  pocket-handkerchief  was  bound 
round  the  reptilian  jaws  and  tied  at  the 
top  of  the  head  in  a  bow-knot. 

She  had  gotten  rid  of  Thomas.  But 
here  was  Miss  Royle ! 

333 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

There  was  no  time  for  greetings. 
Again  were  sounding  those  furious  growls 
—  'Rar!  Rar!  Rar!" 

Jane  swung  round  in  a  half-circle  to 
warn  the  governess.  "It's  that  Bear!"  she 
hummed.  "Can't  you  drive  him  away?" 

Miss  Royle  began  to  uncoil. 

The  Policeman  was  tick-tacking  up  and 
down.  "The  Den's  damaged!"  he  la- 
mented. 

"Now,  who's  goin'  to  pay?"  demanded 
the  Piper. 

"I'm  afraid  the  Bear's  hurt,"  declared 
the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces. 

In  her  eagerness  to  trip  Jane,  Gwen- 
dolyn had  utterly  forgotten  the  Bear's 
Den.  Now  she  saw  it — a  large  cage,  light 
in  color,  its  bars  woven  closely  together. 
And  she  saw  too — with  horror — that  what 
the  Policeman  said  was  true :  In  falling, 
the  Big  Rock  had  broken  the  cover  of  the 

334 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Den.    This  cover  was  flopping  up  and 
down  on  its  hinges. 
"Oh,  he's  loose!"  she  gasped. 


The  Bear  himself  was  knocking  the 
cover  into  the  air.  The  top  of  his  head 
could  be  seen  as  he  hopped  about,  evi- 
dently in  pain. 

And  now  an  extraordinary  thing  hap- 
pened: A  black  glittering  body  shot 
rustling  through  the  grass  to  the  side  of 
the  Den.  Then  up  went  a  scaly  head, 
and  forth  darted  a  flaming  tongue  —  driv- 
ing the  Bear  back  under  the  cover  ! 

At  which  the  Bear  rebelled.  For  his 
growls  turned  into  a  muffled  protest  — 
"Now,  you  stop,  Miss  Royle!  I  won't  be 
treated  like  this  !  I  won't!" 

Then  Gwendolyn  understood  Jane's 
hum  !  And  why  the  governess  had  obeyed 
it  so  swiftly.  The  light-colored  cage 

335 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  the  loose  cover  was  nothing  else  than 
the  old  linen-hamper !    As  for  the  Bear — ! 

Hair  flying,  cheeks  crimson,  eyes  shin- 
ing with  quick  tears  of  joy,  she  darted  past 
Jane,  leaped  the  glittering  snake-folds  be- 
fore the  hamper,  and  swung  the  cover  up 
on  its  hinges. 

"Puffy!"  she  cried.    "Oh,  Puffy!" 

It  was  indeed  Puffy,  with  his  plushy 
brown  head,  his  bright,  shoe-button  eyes, 
his  red-tipped,  sharply  pointed  nose,  his 
adorably  tiny  ears,  and  deep-cut,  tightly 
shut,  determined  mouth.  It  was  Puffy, 
as  dear  as  ever!  As  old  and  as  squashy! 

He  stood  up  in  the  hamper  to  look  at 
her,  leaning  his  front  paws — in  rather  a 
dignified  manner — on  the  broken  edge  of 
the  basketry.  He  was  breathing  hard 
from  his  contest,  but  smiling  nevertheless. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  affably.  "The  Poor  Lit- 
tle Rich  Girl,  I  see !" 

336 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn's  first  impulse  was  to  take 
him  up  in  her  arms.  But  his  proud  air, 
combined  with  the  fact  that  he  had  grown 
tremendously,  caused  her  to  check  the  im- 
pulse. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  inquired  po- 
litely. 

"I'm  pretty  shabby,  thank  you.3' 

"Oh,  it's  so  good  to  hear  your  voice 
again!"  she  exclaimed.  "When  you  left, 
I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  tell  you  good- 
by." 

It  was  then  that  she  noticed  a  white 
something  fluttering  at  his  breast,  just  un- 
der his  left  fore-leg.  "Excuse  me,"  she 
said  apologetically,  "but  aren't  you  losing 
your  pocket  handkerchief?" 

Sadly  he  shook  his  head.  "It's  my  stuff- 
ing," he  explained.  And  gently  with- 
drawing his  paw  from  her  eager  grasp,  laid 


337 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

it  upon  his  breast.  "You  see,  the  Big 
Rock—" 

The  little  old  gentleman  was  beside 
him,  examining  the  wound;  muttering  to 
himself. 

"Can  you  mend  him?"  asked  Gwen- 
dolyn. "Oh,  Puffy!" 

The  little  old  gentleman  began  to 
empty  his  pockets  of  the  articles  with 
which  he  had  provided  himself — the  ear, 
the  handful  of  hair,  the  plump  cheek. 
"Ah!  Ah!"  he  breathed  as  he  examined 
each  one;  and  to  and  fro  wagged  the 
grizzled  beard.  "Fm  afraid — !  I  must 
have  help.  This  is  a  case  that  will  require 
a  specialist." 

The  tone  was  so  solemn  that  it  fright- 
ened her.  "Oh,  do  you  mean  we  need  a 
Doctor?* 

Puffy  was  trembling  weakly.  "I  lost 
some  cotton-batting  once  before,"  he 

338 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

half-whispered  to  Gwendolyn.  "It  was 
when  you  were  teething.  Oh,  I  know  it 
was  unintentional!  You  were  so  little. 
But — I  can't  spare  any  more." 

Down  into  the  patch-pocket  went  her 
hand.  Out  came  the  lip-case.  She  thrust 
it  into  his  furry  grasp.  "Keep  this/'  she 
bade,  "till  I  come  back.  /'//  go  for  the 
Doctor." 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  leaned 
down.  "Fly!"  he  urged. 

At  that,  Jane  began  to  circle  once  more. 
"Lovie,"  she  hummed,  "don't  you  go! 
He'll  give  you  nasty  medicine!" 

"Hiss-s-s-s!"  chimed  in  Miss  Royle,  her 
bandaged  head  rising  and  lowering  in  as- 
sent. "He'll  cut  out  your  appendix." 

One  moment  she  hesitated,  feeling  the 

old  fear  drive  the  blood  from  her  cheeks 

-to  her  wildly  beating  heart.    Then  she 

saw  Puffy  sway,  half  fainting.    And  obey- 

339 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ing  the  command  of  the  little  old  gentle- 
man, she  grasped  her  gingham  dress  at 
either  side — held  it  out  to  its  fullest  width 
— and  with  the  wind  pouching  the  little 
skirt,  left  the  high  grass,  passed  up 
through  the  lights  of  the  nearby  trees — 
and  rose  into  the  higher  air ! 

She  gave  a  glance  down  as  she  went. 
How  excitedly  Jane  was  circling!  How 
Miss  Royle  was  lashing  the  ground ! 

But  the  faces  of  the  other  three  were 
smiling  encouragement.  And  she  flew 
for  her  very  life.  Lightly  she  went — as 
if  there  were  nothing  to  her  but  her  little 
gingham  dress ;  as  if  that  empty  dress,  hav- 
ing tugged  at  some  swagging  clothes-line 
until  it  was  free,  were  now  being  wafted 
across  the  roofs,  the  tree-tops,  the  smooth 
windings  of  a  road,  to — 

A  bake-shop,  without  doubt!  For  her 
nostrils  caught  the  good  smell  of  fresh 

340 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

bread.  Suddenly  the  shop  loomed  ahead 
of  her.  She  alighted  to  have  a  look  at 
it. 

It  was  a  round,  high,  stone  building, 
with  stone  steps  leading  up  to  it  from 
every  side,  and  columns  ranged  in  a  circle 
at  the  top  of  the  steps.  Seated  on  the 
bottom  step,  engrossed  in  some  task,  was 
a  man. 

As  Gwendolyn  looked  at  him  she  told 
herself  that  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces 
had  given  this  customer  such  a  nice  face; 
the  eyes,  in  particular,  were  kind. 

He  had  a  large  pan  of  bread-dough  be- 
side him.  Out  of  it,  now,  he  gouged  a 
spoonful,  which  he  began  to  roll  between 
his  palms.  And  as  he  rolled  the  dough, 
it  became  rounder  and  rounder,  until  it 
was  ball-like.  It  turned  browner  and 
browner,  too,  precisely  as  if  it  were  bak- 
ing in  his  hands!  When  he  was  finished 

34i 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

with  it,  he  piled  it  to  one  side,  atop  other 
brown  pellets. 

She  advanced  to  speak.  "Please,"  she 
began,  pointing  a  small  finger,  "what  is 
this  place?" 

He  glanced  up.  "This,  little  girl,  is 
the  Pillery." 

The  Pillery!  Instantly  she  knew  what 
he  was  making — bread-pills. 

And  the  bread-pills  helped  her  to  recog- 
nize him.  She  dimpled  cordially.  "I 
haven't  seen  you  since  I  had  the  colic," 
she  said,  nodding,  "but  I  know  you. 
You're  the  Doctor!" 

The  Doctor  was  most  cordial,  shaking 
her  hand  gently;  after  which,  naturally 
enough,  he  felt  her  pulse. 

"But  there's  nothing  the  matter  with 
me"  she  protested.  "It's  my  dear  Puffy. 
Tou  remember." 

342 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Now  he  rose  solemnly,  selected  a  fresh- 
baked  pill,  bowed  to  the  right,  again  to 
the  left,  last  of  all,  to  her — and  presented 
the  pill. 

"In  that  case,  Miss  Gwendolyn,"  he 
said,  smiling  down,  "a  toast!" 

And — quite  in  contrast  to  the  evening 
of  her  seventh  birthday  anniversary — 
toast  there  was,  deliciously  crisp  and 
crunchy ! 

"Oo!  How  good!"  she  exclaimed,  not 
nibbling  conventionally,  but  taking  big 
bites.  "  'Cause  I  hate  cake!" 

The  next  moment  she  became  aware  of 
the  munching  of  others.  And  on  looking 
round,  found  that  she  was  back  at  the  Den. 
She  was  not  surprised.  Things  had  a  way 
of  coming  to  pass  in  a  pleasantly  instan- 
taneous fashion.  And  she  was  glad  to  see 
the  little  old  gentleman,  the  Piper  and  the 

343 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Policeman  each  fairly  gobbling  up  a 
pellet.  Miss  Royle  was  eating,  too,  and 
Jane  was  stuffing  both  mouths. 

But  Puffy  was  having  quite  different 
fare.  In  front  of  him  stood  the  Doctor, 
busily  feeding  filmy  white  bits  into  the 
tear  just  under  a  fore-leg. 

"I  think  you'll  find,"  assured  the  latter, 
"that  a  proper  amount  of  cotton-batting 
is  most  refreshing." 

"Once  I  wanted  Jane  to  take  me  to  the 
Doll  Hospital,"  complained  Puffy,  his 
shoe-button  eyes  hard  with  resentment; 
"but  she  said  I  was  only  a  little  beast." 

Gwendolyn  looked  severe.  "Jane, 
you'll  be  sorry  for  that,"  she  scolded. 

"Ah-A0/  my  dear!"  said  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces,  addressing  the  nurse,  "at 
last  one  of  your  chickens  is  coming  home 


to  roost!" 


Gwendolyn    glanced    up.    And,    sure 

344 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

enough,  a  chicken  was  going  past — a 
small  blue  hen,  who  looked  exceedingly 
fagged.  (This  was  an  occurrence  worth 
noting.  How  often  had  she  heard  the 
selfsame  remark — and  never  seen  as  much 
as  a  feather ! ) 

Jane  also  saw  the  blue  hen.  And  ap- 
peared much  disconcerted.  "I  think  I'll 
take  forty  winks,"  she  hummed;  " — 
twenty  for  the  front  face,  and  twenty 
for  the  back.35  Whereupon  she  made  a 
few  quick  revolutions,  landing  up  against 
the  granite  base  of  the  obelisk. 

The  Doctor  had  been  sewing  up  the  tear 
in  Puffy' s  coat.  Now  he  finished  his 
seam  and  knotted  the  thread.  "There!" 
said  he,  cheerily.  "You're  as  good  as 


new!' 


'Thank  you,"  said  Puffy.  "And  I  feel 
so  grateful  to  you,  Miss  Gwendolyn,  that 
I  must  repay  your  kindness.  You've  al- 

345 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ways  heard  a  certain  statement  about 
Jane,  yonder.  Well,  I'm  going  to  prove 
that  it's  true." 

"What's  true?55  asked  Gwendolyn,  puz- 
zled. 

He  made  no  answer.  But  after  a  short 
whispered  conference  with  the  Policeman, 
turned  his  back  and  began  sniffing  and 
snarling  under  his  breath,  while  a  fore- 
paw  was  busy  in  the  region  of  his  third 
rib.  When  he  faced  round  again,  the 
shoe-button  eyes  were  shining  trium- 
phantly, and  he  was  holding  both  fore- 
paws  together  tightly. 

"I  found  one !"  he  cried.  And  wabbling 
over  to  Jane,  stationed  himself  on  one 
side  of  her,  at  the  same  time  motioning  the 
Officer  to  steal  round  to  the  other  side  on 
quiet  hands. 

And  now  Gwendolyn  saw  that  Jane, 
though  she  was  only  feigning  sleep,  was 

346 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ignorant  of  what  was  happening.  For  her 
double  equipment  of  faces  had  its  disad- 
vantages. Even  when  upright  she  had 
not  been  able  to  roll  one  eye  forward 
while  its  mate  was  on  guard  in  the  rear. 
And  reclining  flat  upon  her  back,  she  could 
not  rumble  her  eyes  forward  to  her  front 
face  for  the  reason  that  they  would  not 
roll  up-hill.  Both  stayed  in  the  back  of 
her  head,  where  they  could  see  only  the 
ground. 

Very  cautiously  Puffy  put  his  fore-paws 
to  Jane's  ear — suddenly  separated  them 
— and  waited. 

A  moment.  Then,  "Well,  finding  this 
out,  you  can  wager  I  don't  stay  heels  over 
head  no  more !"  cried  the  Policeman.  And 
with  a  wriggle  and  a  twist  and  a  bound, 
he  gave  a  half  somersault  and  stood  on  his 
feet! 

At  once,  the  bottoms  of  his  trouser-legs 
347 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

came  down  over  nis  shoes,  his  coat-tails 
fell  about  him  properly,  uncovering  his 
shield  and  his  belt,  and  his  club  took  its 
place  at  his  right  side.  "Ouch!"  he  ex- 
claimed. And  began  to  scratch  hard  at 
the  spot  just  between  his  shoulder-blades. 
At  the  same  time,  the  tears  that  were  in  his 
cap  flowed  out  and  down  his  face.  So 
that  he  seemed  to  be  weeping. 

The  Doctor,  leaning  close  beside  Gwen- 
dolyn, was  all  sympathy.  "There  is  no 
reason  to  feel  bad,"  he  said  kindly.  "The 
operation  was  successful." 

"Feel  bad!"  repeated  the  Policeman. 
"Why,  I'm  laughing.  Ha!  Ha!  We  put 
a  flea  in  her  ear!" 

At  that,  Jane  began  to  laugh.  "Oh, 
laws!"  she  exclaimed,  sleeve  to  mouth 
once  more.  "Oh,  I  never  heard  the  like 
of  it!" 

"Rar!"  growled  Puffy,  delighted. 
348 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"The  plan  is  working!     See  her  grow!" 

'That  flea  went  in  one  ear  and  came  out 
the  other/'  declared  the  little  old  gentle- 
man, poking  Jane  with  the  toe  of  a  worn 
shoe. 

Jane  laughed  the  harder.  "Oh,  it's 
awful  funny!"  she  cried,  rocking  herself 
to  and  fro — and  steadily  increasing  her 
girth.  "Oh!  Oh!  Oh!" 

"We've  proved  that  you're  empty- 
headed,"  said  Puffy. 

And  now  the  nurse  was  seized  by  a  very 
paroxysm  of  mirth.  Both  faces  distorted, 
she  whopped  over  and  over. 

"That's  right!  Split  your  sides  a- 
laughin',"  cried  the  Piper. 

At  these  words,  sudden  terror  showed 
on  her  face.  For  the  first  time  she  saw 
the  trap  into  which  she  had  been  led ! 

Yet  she  could  not  check  her  laughter. 


349 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  ho!"  she  gasped  hysterically; 
"oh!—99 

It  was  her  last.  Black  sateen  could 
stand  no  more. 

She  gave  a  final  and  feeble  rock.  Both 
revolving  faces  paled.  Then  there 
sounded  a  loud  pop — like  the  bursting  of 
an  automobile  tire.  Next,  a  ripping — 

"Look!"  cried  Gwendolyn. 

There  were  great  rents  down  the  front 
seams  of  Jane's  waist! 

The  nurse  guessed  what  had  happened, 
and  clutched  desperately  at  the  gaping 
seams  with  both  fat  hands — now  in  front, 
now  at  the  sides,  striving  to  hold  the  rips 
together. 

To  no  avail !  All  the  laughter  was  gone 
out  of  her.  Quickly  she  collapsed,  her 
sateen  hanging  in  loose,  ragged  strips. 
Once  more  she  was  just  ordinary  nurse- 
maid size. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  will  she  die?"  asked  Gwendolyn, 
anxiously. 

The  Doctor  knelt  to  grasp  Jane's  wrist. 
"No,"  he  answered  gravely;  "she'll  only 
have  to  go  back  to  the  Employment 
Agency." 

"I  won't!"  cried  Jane.  "I  won't! 
-MissRoyle!" 


"Get  you-know-what  out  of  the  way! 
A  certain  person  musn't  talk  to  it!  If 
she  does  she'll  find  —  " 

"I  understand!"  hissed  back  the  snake. 

Tou-know-what?  Gwendolyn  was 
troubled. 

Now  the  Policeman  and  the  Piper,  as- 
sisted by  Puffy,  picked  the  nurse  up  and 
packed  her  into  the  linen-hamper. 
Whereupon  the  little  old  gentleman 
slapped  down  the  cover  and  tied  a  large 


351 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

tag  to  it.  On  the  tag  was  written—  "Em- 
ployment Agency ',  Down-^own!" 

"I'm  done  with  her"  said  Gwendolyn; 
" — if  she  is  a  perfectly  good  top." 

" You5 re  rid  of  me,"  answered  Jane,  call- 
ing through  the  weave  of  the  hamper. 
"Test  But  how  about  Miss  Royle?" 

"We'll  send  her  back  too/5  declared  the 
Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  "Here!  Where 
are  you?"  He  ran  about,  searching. 

The  others  searched  also — through  the 
grass,  behind  the  granite  shift,  every- 
where. Concern  sobered  each  face. 

For  the  snake-in- the-grass  was  gone ! 


352 


CHAPTER  XIV 

T I  TH Y  had  Miss  Royle,  sly  reptile  that 
she  was,  scuttled  away  without  so 
much  as  a  good-by? 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Gwendolyn;  "just 
as  soon  as  one  trouble's  finished,  another 
one  starts!" 

"We  must  get  on  her  track!"  declared 
the  Policeman,  patroling  to  and  fro  anx- 
iously. 

"And  let's  hurry,"  urged  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces.  "It's  coming  night  in  the 
City.  And  all  these  lights' 11  be  needed 


soon.' 


Very  soon,  indeed.  For  even  as  he 
spoke  it  happened — with  a  sharp  click. 
Instantly  the  pink  glow  was  blotted  out. 
As  suddenly  thick  blackness  shut  down. 

353 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Except  straight  ahead!  There  Gwen- 
dolyn made  out  an  oblong  patch  of  sky  in 
which  were  a  few  dim  stars. 

"Never  mind/'  went  on  the  little  old 
gentleman,  soothingly.  "Because  we're 
close  to  the  place  where  there's  light  all 
the  time." 

"All  the  time?"  repeated  Gwendolyn, 
surprised. 

"It's  where  light  grows." 

"Grows?" 

"Well,  it's  where  candle-light  grows." 

"Candle-light !"  she  cried.  "You 
mean — !  Oh,  it's  where  my  fath-er 
comes!" 

"Sometimes." 

"Will  he  be  there  now?" 

"Only  the  Bird  can  tell  us  that." 

Then  she  understood  Jane's  last  gasping 
admonition — "Get  you-know-what  out  of 


354 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

the  way !  A  certain  person  mustn't  talk  to 
it!  If  she  does  she'll  find— " 

It  was  the  Doctor's  hand  that  steadied 
her  as  she  hurried  forward  in  the  dark- 
ness. It  was  a  big  hand,  and  she  was  able 
to  grasp  only  two  fingers  of  it.  But  that 
clinging  hold  made  her  feel  that  their 
friendship  was  established.  She  was  not 
at  all  surprised  at  her  complete  change  of 
attitude  toward  him.  It  seemed  to  her 
now  as  if  he  and  she  had  always  been  on 
good  terms. 

The  others  were  near.  She  could  hear 
the  tinkle-tankle  of  the  Piper's  pipes,  the 
scuff  of  Puffy's  paws,  the  labored  breath- 
ing of  the  little  old  gentleman  as  he 
trudged,  the  heavy  tramp,  tramp  of  the 
Policeman.  She  made  her  bare  feet  travel 
as  fast  as  she  could,  and  kept  her  look 
steadily  ahead  on  the  dim  stars. 

And  saw,  moving  from  one  to  another 
355 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

of  them,  in  quick  darts — now  up,  now 
down — a  small  Something.  She  did  not 
instantly  guess  what  it  was — flitting 
across  that  half-darkened  sky.  Until  she 
heard  the  wild  beating  of  tiny  pinions ! 

"Why,  it's  a  bird!"  she  exclaimed. 

"A  bird?"  repeated  the  Policeman,  all 
eagerness. 

"Must  be  the  Bird!"  declared  the  Man- 
Who-Makes-Faces,  triumphantly. 

It  was.  Even  in  the  poor  light  her 
eager  eyes  made  out  the  bumps  on  that 
small  feathered  head.  And  saw  that  on 
the  down-drooping  tail,  nicely  balanced, 
and  gleaming  whitely,  was  a  lump. 

Remembering  what  she  had  heard  about 
that  bit  of  salt,  she  ran  forward.  At  her 
approach,  his  wings  half -lifted.  And  as 
she  reached  out  to  him,  pointing  a  small 
finger,  he  sprang  sidewise,  alighting  upon 
it. 

356 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  Fm  glad  you've  come !"  he  panted. 
He  was  no  larger  than  a  canary;  and 
seemed  to  be  brown — a  sparrow-brown. 
Prejudiced  against  him  she  had  been.  He 
had  tattled  about  ^r — worse,  about  her 
father.  Yet  seeing  him  now,  so  tiny  and 
ruffled  and  frightened,  she  liked  him. 

She  brought  him  to  a  level  with  feer 
eyes.  "What's  the  matter?"  she  asked 
soothingly. 

"I'm  afraid."  He  thrust  out  his  head, 
pointing.  "Look." 

She  looked.  Ahead  the  tops  of  the  grass 
blades  were  swaying  this  way  and  that  in 
a  winding  path — as  if  from  the  passage 
of  some  crawling  thing ! 

"She  tried  to  get  me  out  of  the  way!" 
"Oh,  tell  me  where  is  my  fath-er!" 
"Why,  of  course.    They  say  he's — " 
He  did  not  finish;  or  if  he  did  she  heard 
no  end  to  the  sentence.    Of  a  sudden  her 

357 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

face  had  grown  almost  painfully  hot — as 
a  great  yellow  light  flamed  against  it,  a 
light  that  shimmered  up  dazzlingly  from 
the  surface  of  a  broad  treeless  field.  This 
field  was  like  none  that  she  had  ever 
imagined.  For  its  acres  were  neatly 
sodded  with  mirrors. 

The  little  company  was  on  the  beveled 
edge  of  the  field.  To  halt  them,  and  con- 
spicuously displayed,  was  a  sign.  It 
read — 

Keep  off  tfhe  Glass. 

"'Keep  off  the  glass/3'  read  Gwen- 
dolyn. "And  I  don't  wonder.  'Cause 
we'd  crack  it." 

"We  don't  crack  it,  we  cross  it,"  re- 
minded the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  And 
stepped  boldly  upon  the  gleaming  plate. 

"My!  My!"  exclaimed  the  Piper. 
"Ain't  there  a  fine  crop  this  year!" 

358 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

A  fine  crop?  Gwendolyn  glanced 
down.  And  saw  for  the  first  time  that  the 
mirrored  acres  were  studded,  flower-like, 
with  countless  silk-shaded  candles ! 

What  curious  candles  they  were !  They 
did  not  grow  horizontally,  as  she  had  im- 
agined they  must,  but  upright  and  candle- 
like.  Above  their  sticks,  which  were  of 
brass,  silver  and  decorated  porcelain,  was 
a  flame,  ruddy  of  tip,  sharply  pointed,  but 
fat  and  yellow  at  the  base,  where  the  soft 
white  wax  fed  the  fire;  at  the  other  end  of 
the  sticks,  as  like  the  top  light  as  if  it 
were  a  perfect  reflection,  was  a  second 
flame.  These  were  candles  that  burned 
at  both  ends. 

And  this  was  the  region  she  had  traveled 
so  far  to  find !  Her  heart  beat  so  wildly 
that  it  stirred  the  plaid  of  the  little 
gingham  dress. 


359 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Say!  I  hear  a  quacking!"  announced 
Puffy,  staring  up  into  the  sky. 

Gwendolyn  heard  it,  too.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  across  the  Field  of  Double- 
Ended  Candles.  She  peered  that  way,  to 
where  a  heavy  fringe  of  trees  walled  the 
farther  side  greenily. 

She  saw  him  first! — while  the  others 
(excepting  the  Bird)  were  still  staring 
jkyward.  At  the  start,  what  she  discerned 
was  only  a  faint  outline  on  the  tree-wall 
— the  outline  of  a  man,  broad-shouldered, 
tall,  but  a  trifle  stooped.  It  was  faint  for 
the  reason  that  it  blended  with  the  trees. 
For  the  man  was  garbed  in  green. 

As  he  advanced  into  the  field,  the  chorus 
of  quacks  grew  louder.  And  presently 
Gwendolyn  caught  certain  familiar  ex- 
pressions— "Oh,  don't  bozzer  me!"  "Sit 
up  straight,  Miss!  Sit  up  straight!"  (this 
a  rather  deep  quack) .  "My  dear  child, 

360 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

you  have  no  sense  of  time !"  And,  "What 
on  earth  ever  put  such  a  question  into  your 
head!"  She  concluded  that  the  expres- 
sions were  issuing  from  the  large  bell- 
shaped  horn  which  was  pointed  her  way 
over  one  shoulder  of  the  man  in  green. 
The  talking-machine  to  which  the  horn 
was  attached — a  handsome  mahogany  af- 
fair— he  carried  on  his  back.  It  was  not 
unlike  a  hand-organ.  Which  made  Gwen- 
dolyn wonder  if  he  was  not  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces'  brother. 

She  glanced  back  inquiringly  at  the  lit- 
tle old  gentleman.  Either  the  stranger 
was  a  relation — and  not  a  popular  one — 
or  else  the  quacking  expressions  annoyed. 
For  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  was 
scowling.  And,  "Cavil,  criticism,  correc- 
tion!" he  scolded,  half  to  himself. 

He  in  green  now  began  to  move  about 
and  gather  silk-shaded  candles,  bending 

361 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

this  way  and  that  to  pluck  them,  and  pay- 
ing not  the  slightest  attention  to  the 
group  of  watchers  in  plain  view.  But  not 
one  of  these  was  indifferent  to  his  pres- 
ence. And  all  were  acting  in  a  most 
incomprehensible  manner.  With  one  ac- 
cord, Doctor  and  Piper,  Bear  and  Police- 
man, Face-maker  and  Bird,  were  rubbing 
hard  at  the  palm  of  one  hand.  There  be- 
ing no  trees  close  by,  the  men  used  the  sole 
of  a  shoe,  while  Puffy  raked  away  at  one 
paw  with  the  claws  of  the  others,  and  the 
Bird  pecked  a  foot  with  his  beak. 

And  yet  Gwendolyn  could  not  believe 
that  it  was  really  he. 

The  Policeman  drew  near.  c You've 
heard  of  Hobson's  choice?"  he  inquired  in 
a  low  voice.  "Perhaps  this  is  Hobson,  or 
Sam  Hill,  or  Punch,  or  Great  Scott." 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  shook  his 
362 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

head.  "You  don't  know  him,"  he  an- 
swered, "because  recently,  when  the  bears 
were  bothering  him  a  lot  in  his  Street,  I 
made  him  a  long  face." 

The  man  in  green  was  pausing  where 
the  candles  clustered  thickest.  Gwen- 
dolyn, still  doubtful,  went  forward  to 
greet  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir,"  she  began, 
curtseying. 

His  face  was  long,  as  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces  had  pointed  out — very  long, 
and  pale,  and  haggard.  Between  his 
sunken  temples  burned  his  dark-rimmed 
eyes.  His  nose  was  thin,  and  over  it  the 
skin  was  drawn  so  tightly  that  his  nostrils 
were  pinched.  His  lips  were  pressed  to- 
gether, driving  out  the  blood.  His  cheeks 
were  hollow,  and  shadowed  bluely  by  a 
day-old  beard.  He  had  on  a  hat.  Yet 

363 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

she  was  able  (curiously  enough!)  to  note 
that  his  hair  was  sparse  over  the  top  of  his 
head,  and  streaked  with  gray. 

Nevertheless  there  was  no  denying  that 
she  recognized  him  dimly. 

Something  knotted  in  her  throat — at 
seeing  weariness,  anxiety,  even  torture,  in 
those  deep-set  eyes.  "I  think  I've  met 
you  before  somewhere,"  she  faltered. 
"Your — your  long  face — "  The  Bird 
was  perched  on  the  fore-finger  of  one  hand. 
She  proffered  the  other. 

He  did  not  even  look  at  her.  "My 
hands  are  full/5  he  declared.  And  again, 
"My  hands  are  full." 

She  glanced  at  them.  And  saw  that 
each  was  indeed  full — of  paper  money. 
Moreover,  the  green  of  his  coat  was  the 
green  of  new  crisp  bills.  While  his  buff- 
colored  trousers  were  made  of  yellowish 
ones,  carefully  creased. 

364 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

He  was  literally  made  of  money. 

Now  she  felt  reasonably  certain  of  his 
identity.  Yet  she  determined  to  make 
even  more  sure.  "Would  you  mind  just 
turning  around  for  a  moment?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"But  I'm  busy  to-day,"  he  protested. 
"I  can't  be  bothered  with  little  girls.  I'll 
see  you  when  you're  eight  years  old." 
Nevertheless  he  faced  about  accommodat- 
ingly. 

The  moment  he  turned  his  back  he  dis- 
played a  detail  of  his  dress  that  had  not 
been  visible  before.  This  detail,  at  first 
glance,  appeared  to  be  a  smart  leather 
piping.  On  second  glance  it  seemed  a  sort 
of  shawl-strap  contrivance  by  which  the 
talking-machine  was  suspended.  But  in 
the  end  she  knew  what  it  was — a  leather 
harness! — an  exceedingly  handsome, 
silver-buckled,  hand-sewed  harness ! 

365 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  went  around  him  and  raised  a  smil- 
ing face — caught  at  a  hand,  too;  and  felt 
her  own  happy  tears  make  cool  streaks 
down  her  cheeks.  "I — I  don't  see  you 
often/'  she  said,  "bu-but  I  know  you  just 
the  same.  You're — you're  my  fath-er!" 

At   that,   he   glanced   down   at   her— 
stooped — picked  a  candle — and  held  it 
close  to  her  face. 

"Poor  little  girl !"  he  said.  "Poor  little 
girl!" 

"Poor  little  rich  girl,"  she  prompted, 
noting  that  he  had  left  out  the  word. 

She  heard  a  sob ! 

The  next  moment,  Rustle!  Rustle! 
Rustle!  And  at  her  feet  the  gay-topped 
candles  were  bent  this  way  and  that — as 
Miss  Royle,  with  an  artful  serpent-smile 
on  her  bandaged  face,  writhed  her  way 
swiftly  between  them ! 

"Dearie,"    she   hissed,   making   an   af- 
366 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

fectionate  half-coil  about  Gwendolyn, 
"what  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  say  to 
you!" 

Gwendolyn  only  shook  her  head. 

"Guess,  darling/'  encouraged  the  gov- 
erness, coiling  herself  a  little  closer. 

"Maybe  you're  going  to  say,  'Use  your 
dictionary/  "  ventured  Gwendolyn. 

"Oh,  dearie!"  chided  Miss  Royle,  man- 
aging a  very  good  blush  for  a  snake. 

But  now  Gwendolyn  guessed  the  reason 
for  the  other's  sudden  display  of  affection. 
For  that  scaly  head  was  rising  out  of  the 
grass,  inch  by  inch,  and  those  glittering 
serpent  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  Bird ! 

Unable  to  move,  he  watched  her,  plum- 
age on  end,  round  eyes  fairly  starting. 

"Cheep!  Cheep!" 

At  his  cry  of  terror,  the  Doctor  inter- 
posed. "I  think  we'd  better  take  the  Bird 
out  of  here/'  he  said.  "The  less  noise  the 

367 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

better."  And  with  that,  he  lifted  the 
small  frightened  thing  from  Gwendolyn's 
finger. 

Miss  Royle,  quite  thrown  off  her  poise, 
sank  hissing  to  the  ground.  "My 
neuralgia's  worse  than  ever  this  evening/' 
she  complained,  affecting  not  to  notice  his 
interference. 

"Huh!"  he  grunted.  "Keep  away  from 
bargain  counters." 

The  Piper  came  jangling  up.  'That 
snake  belongs  in  her  case,"  he  declared, 
addressing  the  Doctor. 

More  than  once  Gwendolyn  had  won- 
dered why  the  Piper  had  burdened  him- 
self— to  all  appearances  uselessly  and 
foolishly- — with  the  various  pieces  of  lead 
pipe.  But  now  what  wily  forethought 
she  granted  him.  For  with  a  few  quick 
flourishes  of  the  wrench,  she  saw  him  join 
them,  end  to  end,  to  form  one  length. 

368 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

This  he  threw  to  the  ground,  after  which 
he  gave  a  short,  sharp  whistle. 

In  answer  to  it,  the  Bird  fluttered  down, 
and  entered  one  end  of  the  pipe,  giving,  as 
he  disappeared  from  sight,  one  faint 
cheep. 

Miss  Royle  heard.  Her  scaly  head 
glittered  up  once  more.  Her  beady  eyes 
shone.  Her  tongue  darted  hate.  Then 
little  by  little,  that  long  black  body  began 
to  move — toward  the  pipe ! 

A  moment,  and  she  entered  it;  another, 
and  the  last  foot  of  rustling  serpent  had 
disappeared.  Then  out  of  the  farther  end 
of  the  pipe  bounced  the  Bird.  Whereat 
the  Piper  sprang  to  the  Bird's  side,  pro- 
duced a  nut,  and  screwed  it  on  the  pipe- 
end. 

"How's  that!"  he  cried  triumphantly. 

The  pipe  rolled  partly  over.  A  muffled 
voice  came  from  it,  railing  at  him:  "Be 

369 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

careful  what  you  do,  young  man!  /  saw 
you  had  that  bonnet  of  mine!" 

"Oh,  can  a  snake  crawl  backwards?"  de- 
manded Gwendolyn,  excitedly. 

The  Piper  answered  with  a  harsh  laugh. 
And  scrambling  the  length  of  the  lead 
pipe,  fell  to  hammering  in  a  plug. 

Miss  Royle  was  a  prisoner ! 

The  Bird  bounced  very  high.  "That's 
a  feather  in  your  cap,"  he  declared  joy- 
ously, advancing  to  the  Piper.  And 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  pulled  a 
tiny  plume  from  his  own  wing,  fluttered 
up,  and  thrust  it  under  the  band  of  the 
other's  greasy  head-gear. 

"Think  how  that  governess  has  treated 
me,"  growled  Puffy.  "When  I  was  in 
your  nursery,  and  was  old  and  a  little  worn 
out,  how  I  would've  appreciated  care — 
and  repair!" 


370 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"The  Employment  Agency  for  her/' 
said  the  Piper. 

"I'll  attend  to  that/'  added  the  Police- 
man. 

Gwendolyn's  father  had  been  gathering 
candles,  and  had  seemed  not  to  see  what 
was  transpiring.  Now  as  if  he  was  satis- 
fied with  his  load,  he  suddenly  started 
away  in  the  direction  he  had  come.  His 
firm  stride  jolted  the  talking-machine  not 
a  little.  The  quacking  cries  recom- 
menced — 

"Please  to  pay  me.  .  .  .  Let  me  sell 
you  .  .  .  !  Let  me  borrow  .  .  .  !  Won't 
you  hire  .  .  .  !  Quack!  Quack!  Quack!" 

After  him  hurried  the  others  in  an  ex- 
cited group.  The  Piper  led  it,  his  plumb- 
ing-tools jangling,  his  pig-poke  a-swing. 
And  Gwendolyn  saw  him  grin  back  over 
a  shoulder  craftily  —  then  lay  hold  of  her 
father  and  tighten  a  strap. 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  trudged  in  the  rear.  She  had  found 
her  father — and  he  could  see  only  'the 
candles  he  sought,  and  the  money  in  his 
grasp !  She  was  out  in  the  open  with  him 
once  more,  where  she  was  free  to  gambol 
and  shout — yet  he  was  bound  by  his  har- 
ness and  heavily  laden. 

"I  might  just  as  well  be  home/5  she  said 
to  Puffy,  disheartened. 

"Wish  your  fathered  let  me  sharpen  his 
ears,"  whispered  the  Man-Who-Makes- 
Faces.  He  shifted  the  hand-organ  to  the 
other  shoulder. 

The  Doctor  had  a  basket  on  his  arm. 
He  peered  into  it.  "I  haven't  a  thing 
about  me/'  he  declared,  "but  a  bread- 
pill.'5 

"How  would  a  glass  of  soda-water  do?" 
suggested  the  Policeman,  in  an  undertone. 

"Why,  of  courseT 

It  had  happened  before  that  the  mere 
372 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

mention  of  a  thing  brought  that  thing 
swiftly.  Now  it  happened  again.  For 
immediately  Gwendolyn  heard  the  rush 
and  bubble  and  brawl  of  a  narrow  moun- 
tain-stream. Next,  looking  down  from 
the  summit  of  a  gentle  rise,  she  saw  the 
smoky  windings  of  the  unbottled  soda ! 

The  Doctor  was  a  man  of  action. 
Though  the  Policeman  had  made  his  sug- 
gestion only  a  second  before,  here  was  the 
former  already  leaning  down  to  the 
stream;  and,  having  dipped,  was  walking 
in  the  midst  of  the  little  company,  glass 
in  hand. 

Gwendolyn  ran  forward.  "Fath-er!" 
she  called;  "please  have  a  drink!'3 

Her  father  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not 
thirsty,"  he  declared,  utterly  ignoring  the 
proffered  glass. 

"I — I  was  'fraid  he  wouldn't,"  sighed 


373 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn,  head  down  again,  and  scuff- 
ing bare  feet  in  the  cool  damp  grass  of 
the  stream-side — yet  not  enjoying  it! 
The  lights  had  changed:  The  double- 
ended  candles  had  disappeared.  Filling 
the  Land  once  more  with  a  golden  glow 
were  countless  tapers — electric,  gas,  and 
kerosene.  She  was  back  where  she  had 
started,  threading  the  trees  among  which 
she  had  danced  with  joy. 

But  she  was  far  from  dancing  now ! 

"Let's  not  give  up  hope,"  said  a  voice — 
the  Doctor's.  He  was  holding  up  the 
glass  before  his  face  to  watch  the  bubbles 
creaming  upon  its  surface.  'There  may 
be  a  sudden  turn  for  the  better/' 

Before  she  could  draw  another  breath— 
here  was  the  turn !  a  sharp  one.    And  she 
felt  a  keen  wind  in  her  eyes, — blown  in 
gusts,  as  if  by  the  wings  of  giant  butter- 
flies.   The  cloud  that  held  the  wind  lay 

374 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

just  ahead — a  pinky  mass  that  stretched 
from  sky  to  earth. 

The  Bird  turned  his  dark  eyes  upon 
Gwendolyn  from  where  he  sat,  high  and 
safe,  on  the  Doctor's  shoulder.  "I  think 
her  little  journey's  almost  done,35  he  said. 
There  was  a  rich  canary  note  in  his  voice. 

"Oo!  goody!"  she  cried. 

:'You  mean  you  have  a  solution?"  asked 
the  little  old  gentleman. 

"A  solution?5  called  back  the  Piper. 
"Well—?" 

A  moment's  perfect  stillness.  Then, 
"It's  simple,"  said  the  Bird.  (Now  his 
voice  was  strangely  like  the  Doctor's.)  "I 
suppose  you  might  call  it  a  salt  solution." 

His  last  three  words  began  to  run 
through  Gwendolyn's  mind — "A  salt  so- 
lution! A  salt  solution!  A  salt  so- 
lution!"— as  regularly  as  the  pulse  that 
throbbed  in  her  throat. 

375 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Yes/' — the  Doctor's  voice  now,  breath- 
less, low,  tremulous  with  anxiety.  "If 
we  want  to  save  her — " 

"Am  I  her?"  interrupted  Gwendolyn. 
(And  again  somebody  sobbed!) 

" — //  must  be  done!" 

"There  isn't  anything  to  cry  about/'  de- 
clared Gwendolyn,  stoutly.  She  felt 
hopeful,  even  buoyant. 

It  was  all  novel  and  interesting.  The 
Doctor  began  by  making  grabs  at  the 
lump  of  salt  on  the  Bird's  tail.  The  lump 
loosened  suddenly.  He  caught  it  be- 
tween his  palms,  after  which  he  began  to 
roll  it — precisely  as  he  had  rolled  the 
dough  at  the  Pillery.  And  as  the  salt 
worked  into  a  more  perfect  ball,  it  slowly 
browned ! 

Gwendolyn  clapped  her  hands.  "My 
father  won't  know  the  difference,"  she 
cried. 

376 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"You  get  my  idea  exactly,"  answered 
the  Bird. 

The  Doctor  uncovered  the  pill-basket, 
selected  a  fine,  round,  toasted  example  of 
his  own  baking,  and  presented  it  to  the 
Man-Who-Makes-Faces ;  presented  a  sec- 
ond to  Gwendolyn ;  thence  went  from  one 
to  another  of  the  little  company,  whereat 
everyone  fell  to  eating. 

At  once  Gwendolyn's  father  looked 
round  the  circle  of  picknickers — as  if  an- 
noyed by  the  crunching;  but  when  the 
Doctor  held  out  the  brown  salt,  he  took  it, 
examined  it  critically,  turning  it  over  and 
over,  then  lifted  it — and  bit. 

"Pretty  slim  lunch  this,"  he  observed. 

He  ate  heartily,  until  the  last  salt 
crumb  was  gone.  Then,  'Tm  thirsty," 
he  declared.  "Where's—?" 

Instantly  the  Doctor  proffered  the  glass. 


377 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

And  the  other  drank — in  one  great  gasp- 
ing mouthful. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Gwendolyn.  And  felt 
a  grateful  coolness  on  her  lips,  as  if  she 
had  slaked  her  own  thirst. 

The  next  moment  her  father  turned. 
And  she  saw  that  the  change  had  already 
come.  First  of  all,  he  looked  down  at  his 
hands,  caught  sight  of  the  crumpled  bills, 
and  attempted  to  stuff  them  hurriedly  into 
his  pocket.  But  his  pockets  were  already 
wedged  tight  with  silk-shaded  candles. 
He  reached  round  and  fed  the  bills  into 
the  mahogany  case  of  the  talking-machine. 
Next,  he  emptied  his  pockets  of  the  double- 
ended  candles,  frowned  at  them,  and 
threw  them  to  one  side  to  wilt.  Last  of 
all,  he  spied  a  bit  of  leather  strap,  and 
pulled  at  it  impatiently.  Whereupon, 
with  a  clear  ring  of  its  silver  mountings, 
his  harness  fell  about  his  feet. 

378 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

He  smiled,  and  stepped  out  of  it,  as  out 
of  a  cast-off  garment.  This  quick  move- 
ment shook  up  the  talking-machine,  and 
at  once  voices  issued  from  the  great  horn, 
shrilly  protesting  into  his  ear — "Quack! 
Quack!  Kommt,  Fraulein!"  "Une  fille 
stupider  "Gid-dap!"  "Honk!  Honk! 
Honk!" — and  then,  rippling  upward,  to 
the  accompaniment  of  dancing  feet,  a  scale 
on  a  piano. 

He  peered  into  the  horn.  "When  did  I 
come  by  this?"  he  demanded.  "Well,  I 
shan't  carry  it  another  step!"  And  mov- 
ing his  shoulders  as  if  they  ached,  let  the 
talking-machine  slip  sidewise  to  the 
glass. 

There  was  a  crank  attached  to  one  side 
of  the  machine.  This  he  grasped.  And 
while  he  continued  to  stuff  bills  into  the 
mahogany  box  with  one  hand,  he  turned 
the  crank  with  the  other.  Gwendolyn  had 

379 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

often  marveled  at  the  way  bands  of 
sic,  voices  of  men  and  women,  chimes  of 
clocks,  and  bugle-calls  could  come  out  of 
the  self-same  place.  Now  this  was  made 
clear  to  her.  For  as  her  father  whirled 
the  crank,  out  of  the  horn,  in  a  little  pro- 
cession, waddled  the  creatures  who  had 
quacked  so  persistently. 

There  were  six  of  them  in  all.  One 
wore  patent  leather  pumps ;  one  had  a  rid- 
ing-whip; the  third  was  in  motor-livery — 
buff  and  blue;  another  waddled  with  an 
air  unmistakably  French  (feathers  formed 
a  boa  about  her  neck)  ;  the  next  advanced 
firmly,  a  metronome  swinging  on  a  slender 
pince-nez  chain ;  the  last  one  of  all  carried 
a  German  dictionary. 

Her  father  observed  them  gloomily. 
"That's  the  kind  of  ducks  and  drakes  I've 
been  making  out  of  my  money,"  he  de- 
clared. 

380 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  procession  quacked  loudly,  as  if 
glad  to  get  out.  And  waddled  toward  the 
stream. 

"Why!"  cried  Gwendolyn;  "there's 
Monsieur  Tellegen,  and  my  riding-master, 
and  the  chauffeur,  and  my  French  teacher, 
and  my  music-teacher,  and  my  Ger — !" 

His  eyes  rested  upon  her  then.  And 
she  saw  that  he  knew  her ! 

"Oh,  daddy!" — the  tender  name  she 
loved  to  call  him. 

'  Tittle  daughter !    Little  daughter ! ' ' 

She  felt  his  arms  about  her.  pressing  her 
to  him.  His  pale  face  was  close.  "When 
my  precious  baby  is  strong  enough—/'  he 
began. 

"I'm  strong  now."  She  gripped  his 
fingers. 

"We'll  take  a  little  jaunt  together." 

"We  must  have  moth-er  with  us,  daddy. 
Oh,  dear  daddy!" 

381 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"We'll  see  mother  soon/'  he  said;  ' 
very  soon." 

She  brushed  his  cheek  with  searching 
fingers.  "  I  think  we'd  better  start  right 
away/'  she  declared.  c  'Cause — isn't  this 
a  rain-drop  on  your  face?" 


382 


CHAPTER  XV 

TT7ITHOUT  another  moment's  delay 
Gwendolyn  and  her  father  set 
forth,  traveling  a  road  that  stretched  for- 
ward beside  the  stream  of  soda,  winding  as 
the  stream  wound,  to  the  music  of  the 
fuming  water — music  with  a  bass  of  deep 
pool-notes. 

How  sweet  it  all  was!  Underfoot  the 
dirt  was  cool.  It  yielded  itself  deliciously 
to  Gwendolyn's  bare  tread.  Overhead, 
shading  the  way,  were  green  boughs,  close- 
laced,  but  permitting  glimpses  of  blue. 
Upon  this  arbor,  bouncing  along  with  an 
occasional  chirp  of  contentment,  and  with 
the  air  of  one  who  has  assumed  the  lead, 
went  the  Bird. 

Gwendolyn's  father  walked  in  silence, 
383 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

his  look  fixed  far  ahead.  Trotting  at  his 
side,  she  glanced  up  at  him  now  and  then. 
She  did  not  have  to  dread  the  coming  of 
Jane,  or  Miss  Royle,  or  Thomas.  Yet  she 
felt  concern — on  the  score  of  keeping  be- 
side him;  of  having  ready  a  remark,  gay  or 
entertaining,  should  he  show  signs  of  be- 
ing bored. 

No  sooner  did  the  thought  occur  to  her 
than  the  Bird  was  ready  with  a  story.  He 
fluttered  down  to  the  road,  hunted  a  small 
brush  from  under  his  left  wing  and  scrub- 
bed carefully  at  the  feathers  covering  his 
crop.  "Now  I  can  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it,"  he  announced. 

"Oh,  you're  going  to  tell  us  how  you  got 
the  lump?"  asked  Gwendolyn,  eagerly. 

The  feathers  over  his  crop  were  spotless. 
He  nodded — and  tucked  away  the  scrub- 
bing brush.  "Once  upon  a  time/'  he  be- 
gan— 

384 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girt 

She  dimpled  with  pleasure.  "I  like 
stories  that  start  that  way!"  she  inter- 
rupted. 

"Once  upon  a  time/'  he  repeated,  "I  was 
just  an  ordinary  sparrow,  hopping  about 
under  the  kitchen-window  of  a  residence, 
busily  picking  up  crumbs.  While  I  was 
thus  employed,  the  cook  in  the  kitchen 
happened  to  spill  some  salt  on  the  floor. 
Being  a  superstitious  creature  she  prompt- 
ly threw  a  lump  of  it  over  her  shoulder. 
Well,  the  kitchen  window  was  open,  and 
the  salt  went  through  it  and  lit  on  my 
tail."  (Here  he  pointed  his  beak  to  where 
the  crystal  had  been).  "And  no  sooner 
did  it  get  firmly  settled  on  my  feathers — " 

:The  first  person  that  came  along  could 
catch  you!"  cried  Gwendolyn.  "Jane 
told  me  that." 

"Jane?"  said  the  Bird. 


385 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 
'The  fat  two-faced  woman  that  was  my 


nurse." 


The  Bird  ruffled  his  plumage.  "Well, 
of  course  she  knew  the  facts/'  he  admitted. 
"You  see,  she  was  the  cook." 

"Oh!" 

"As  long  as  that  lump  was  on  my  tail/' 
resumed  the  Bird,  "anybody  could  catch 
me,  and  send  me  anywhere.  And  nobody 
ever  seemed  to  want  to  take  the  horrid 
load  off  —  with  salt  so  cheap." 

"Did  you  do  errands  for  my  fath-er?" 

Her  father  answered.  "Messages  and 
messages  and  messages,"  he  murmured 
wearily.  (There  was  a  rustle,  as  of  pa- 
per.) "Mostly  financial."  He  sighed. 

"Sometimes  my  work  has  eased  up  a 
trifle,"  went  on  the  Bird,  more  cheerily; 
"that's  when  They  hired  Jack  Robinson, 
because  he's  so  quick." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  worked  for  They,"  said 
386 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn.  "Please,  who  are  They*? 
And  what  do  They  look  like?  And  how 
many  are  there  of  'em?" 

Ahead  was  a  bend  in  the  road.  He 
pointed  it  out  with  his  bill.  "You  know/5 
said  he,  "it's  just  as  good  to  turn  a  corner 
as  a  stone.  For  there  They  are  now!" 
He  gave  an  important  bounce. 

She  rounded  the  bend  on  tiptoe.  But 
when  she  caught  sight  of  They,  it  seemed 
as  if  she  had  seen  them  many  times  before. 
They  were  two  in  number,  and  wore  top 
hats,  and  plum-covered  coats  with  black 
piping.  They  were  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  facing  each  other.  About 
their  feet  fluttered  dingy  feathers.  And 
between  them  was  a  half-plucked  crow, 
which  They  were  picking. 

Once  she  had  wanted  to  thank  They  for 
the  pocket  in  the  new  dress.  Now  she  felt 
as  if  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  mention 

387 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

patch-pockets  to  such  stately  personages. 
So,  leaving  her  father,  she  advanced 
modestly  and  curtsied. 

"How  do  you  do,  They,"  she  began. 
'Tm  glad  to  meet  you." 

They  stared  at  her  without  replying. 
They  were  alike  in  face  as  well  as  in  dress; 
even  in  their  haughty  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. 

cTve  heard  about  you  so  often,"  went 
on  Gwendolyn.  "I  feel  I  almost  know 
you.  And  I've  heard  lots  of  things  that 
you've  said.  Aren't  you  always  saying 
things?' 

"Saying  things,"  They  repeated.  (She 
was  astonished  to  find  that  They  spoke  in 
chorus ! )  "Well,  it's  often  So-and-So 
that  does  the  talking,  but  we  get  the 
blame."  Now  They  glared. 

Gwendolyn,  realizing  that  she  had  been 
unfortunate  in  the  choice  of  a  subject, 

388 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

hastened  to  reassure  them.  "Oh,  I  don't 
want  to  blame  you/'  she  protested,  "for 
things  you  don't  do." 

At  that  They  smiled.  "I  blame  him, 
and  he  blames  me,"  They  answered.  "In 
that  way  we  shift  the  responsibility." 
(At  which  Gwendolyn  nodded  under- 
standingly.)  "And  since  we  always  hunt 
as  a  couple"  (here  They  pulled  fiercely  at 
the  feathers  of  the  captured  bird  between 
them)  "nobody  ever  knows  who  really  is 
to  blame." 

They  cast  aside  the  crow,  then,  and  led 
the  way  along  the  road,  walking  briskly. 
Behind  them  walked  the  Policeman,  one 
hand  to  his  cap. 

"Say,  please  don't  put  me  off  the  Force," 
he  begged. 

Grass  and  flowers  grew  along  the  center 
of  the  road.  No  sooner  did  the  Policeman 
make  his  request  than  They  moved  across 

389 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

this  tiny  hedge  and  traveled  one  side  of 
the  road,  giving  the  other  side  over  to  the 
Officer.  Whereupon  he  strode  abreast  of 
They,  swinging  his  night-stick  thought- 
fully. 

The  walking  was  pleasant  there  by  the 
stream-side.  The  fresh  breeze  caressed 
Gwendolyn's  cheeks,  and  swirled  her  yel- 
low hair  about  her  shoulders.  She  took 
deep  breaths,  through  nostrils  swelled  to 
their  widest. 

"Oh,  I  like  this  place  best  in  the  whole, 
whole  world!"  she  said  earnestly. 

The  next  moment  she  knew  why !  For 
rounding  another  bend,  she  caught  sight 
of  a  small  boyish  figure  in  a  plaid 
gingham  waist  and  jeans  overalls.  His 
tousled  head  was  raised  eagerly.  His 
blue  eyes  shone. 

"H00-hoo-oo-oo!"  he  called. 

She  gave  a  leap  forward.  "Why,  it's 
390 


The  Poor  kittle  Rich  Girl 

jofinnie   Blake!"   she   cried.      "Johnnie! 
Oh,  Johnnie!" 

It  was  Johnnie.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing that  small  freckled  nose.  "Say! 
Don't  you  want  to  help  dig  worms?"  he 
invited.  And  proffered  his  drinking- 
cup. 

She  needed  no  urging,  but  began  to  dig 
at  once;  and  found  bait  in  abundance,  so 
that  the  cup  was  quickly  filled,  and  she 
was  compelled  to  use  his  ragged  straw 
hat.  "Oh,  isn't  this  nice!"  she  exclaimed. 
"And  after  we  fish  let's  hunt  a  frog!" 

"I  know  where  there's  tadpoles," 
boasted  he.  "And  long-legged  bugs  that 
can  walk  on  the  water,  and — " 

"Oh,  I  want  to  stay  here  always!" 

She  had  forgotten  that  there  were  others 
about.  But  now  a  voice — her  father's — 
broke  in  upon  her  happy  chatter : 

"Without  your  mother?" 
39* 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  had  been  sitting  down.  She  rose, 
and  brushed  her  hands  on  the  skirt  of  her 
dress.  "I'll  find  my  moth-er,"  she  said. 

The  little  old  gentleman  was  beside 
Johnnie,  patting  his  shoulder  and  thrust- 
ing something  into  a  riveted  pocket. 
"There!"  he  half-whispered.  "And  tell 
your  father  to  be  sure  to  keep  this  nose 
away  from  the  grindstone." 

Gwendolyn  wrinkled  her  brows.  "But 
— but  isn't  Johnnie  coming  with  me?"  she 
asked. 

At  that  Johnnie  shook  his  head  vigor- 
ously. "Not  away  from  here"  he  de- 
clared. "No!" 

"No,"  repeated  Puffy.  "Not  away 
from  the  woods  and  the  stream  and  fish- 
ing, and  hunting  frogs  and  tadpoles  and 
water-bugs.  Why,  he's  the  Rich  Little 
Poor  Boy!" 

"Oh!— Well,  then  I'll  come  back!" 
392 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  moved  away  slowly,  looking  over  a 
shoulder  at  him  as  she  went.  "Don't  for- 
get! I'll  come  back!" 

'Til  be  here/3  he  answered.  "And  I'll 
let  you  use  my  willow  fish-pole/'  He 
waved  a  hand. 

There  were  carriage-lamps  along  the 
stream  now.  Alternating  with  these  were 
automobile  lights — brass  side-lights,  and 
larger  brass  search-lights,  all  like  great 
glowing  eyes. 

Again  They  were  in  advance.  "We 
can't  be  very  far  from  the  Barn,"  They 
announced.  And  each  waved  his  right 
arm  in  a  half-circle. 

"Robin  Hood's  Barn?'  whispered 
Gwendolyn. 

The  Policeman  nodded.  "The  first 
people  to  go  around  it,"  said  he,  "were 
ladies  who  used  feather-dusters  on  the 
parlor  furniture." 

393 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"I  s'pose  it's  been  built  a  long  time/' 
said  Gwendolyn. 

"Ah,  a  long  time!"  Her  father  was 
speaking.  Now  he  halted  and  pointed 
down — to  a  wide  road  that  crossed  the  one 
she  was  traveling.  "Just  notice  how 
that's  been  worn." 

The  wide  road  had  deep  ruts.  Also, 
here  and  there  upon  it  were  great,  bowl- 
like  holes.  But  a  level  strip  between  the 
ruts  and  the  holes  shone  as  if  it  had  been 
tramped  down  by  countless  feet. 

"Around  Robin  Hood's  Barn!"  went 
on  her  father  sadly.  "How  many  have 
helped  to  wear  that  road!  Not  only  her 
mother,  but  her  mother  before  her,  and 
then  back  and  back  as  far  as  you  can 
count." 

"I  can't  count  back  very  far,"  said 
Gwendolyn,  '  'cause  I  never  have  any 
time  for  'rithmatic.  I  have  to  study  my 

394 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

French,  and  my  German,  and  my  music, 
and  my — " 

Her  father  groaned.  "I've  traveled  it, 
too,"  he  admitted. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  then.  And  there, 
just  across  that  wide  road,  was  the  Barn! 
— looming  up  darkly,  a  great  framework 
of  steel  girders,  all  bolted  together,  and 
rusted  in  patches  and  streaks.  Through 
these  girders  could  be  seen  small  regular 
spots  of  light. 

"Nobody  has  to  go  round  the  Barn/' 
she  protested.  "Anybody  could  just  go 
right  in  at  one  side  and  right  out  at  the 
other." 

"But  the  road!"  said  her  father  mean- 
ingly. "If  ever  one's  feet  touch  it — !" 

She  thought  the  road  wonderful.  It 
was  river-wide,  and  full  of  gentle  undula- 
tions. Where  it  was  smoothest,  it  re- 
flected the  Barn  and  all  the  surrounding 

395 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

lights.  Yet  now  (like  the  shining  tin  of 
a  roof-top)  it  resounded — to  a  foot-fall! 

"Some  one's  coming!"  announced  the 
Piper. 

Buzz-z-z-z! 

It  was  a  low,  angry  droning. 

The  next  moment  a  figure  came  into 
sight  at  a  corner  of  the  Barn.  It  was  a 
slender,  girlish  figure,  and  it  came  hurry- 
ing forward  along  the  circular  way  with 
never  a  glance  to  right  or  left.  Gwen- 
dolyn could  see  that  whoever  the  traveler 
was,  her  dress  was  plain  and  scant.  Nor 
were  there  ornaments  shining  in  her 
pretty  hair,  which  was  unbound.  She 
was  shod  in  dainty,  high-heeled  slippers. 
And  now  she  walked  as  fast  as  she  could ; 
again  she  broke  into  a  run;  but  taking  no 
note  of  the  ruts  and  rough  places,  con- 
tinually stumbled. 

"She's  watching  what's  in  her  hand," 
396 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

said  the  Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  "Con- 
templation, speculation,  perlustration." 
And  he  sighed. 

"She'll  have  a  fine  account  to  settle 
with  me/' — this  the  Piper  again.  He 
whipped  out  his  note-book.  ''That's  what 
/  call  a  merry  dance." 

"See  what  she's  carrying,"  advised  the 
Bird.  In  one  hand  the  figure  held  a  small 
dark  something. 

Gwendolyn  looked.  "Why, — why," 
she  began  hesitatingly,  "isn't  it  a 
bonnet?" 

A  bonnet  it  was — a  plain,  cheap-look- 
ing piece  of  millinery. 

Bt/ZZ-Z-Z-Z-Z/ 

The  drone  grew  loud.  The  figure 
caught  the  bonnet  close  to  her  face  and 
held  it  there,  turning  it  about  anxiously. 
Her  eyes  were  eager.  Her  lips  wore  a 
proud  smile. 

397 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

It  was  then  that  Gwendolyn  recognized 
her.  And  leaned  forward,  holding  out 
her  arms.  "Moth-er !"  she  plead.  "Moth- 
er!" 

Her  mother  did  not  hear.  Or,  if  she 
heard,  did  not  so  much  as  lift  her  eyes 
from  the  bonnet.  She  tripped,  regained 
her  balance,  and  rushed  past,  hair  wind- 
tossed,  dress  fluttering.  At  either  side  of 
her,  smoke  curled  away  like  silk  veiling 
blown  out  by  the  swift  pace. 

"Oh,  she's  burning!"  cried  Gwendolyn, 
in  a  panic  of  sudden  distress. 

The  Doctor  bent  down.  'That's 
money/'  he  explained;  " — burning  her 
pockets." 

"She  can't  see  anything  but  the  bee. 
She  can't  hear  anything  but  the  bee."  It 
was  Gwendolyn's  father,  murmuring  to 
himself. 

"The  berf' 

398 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Now  the  Bird  came  bouncing  to  Gwen- 
dolyn's side.  "You've  read  that  bees 
are  busy  little  things,  haven't  you?"  he 
asked.  "Well,  this  particular  so-cial 
hon-ey-gath-er-ing  in-sect — " 

"That's  the  very  one!"  she  declared  ex- 
citedly. 

" — Is  no  exception." 

"We  must  get  it  away  from  her,"  de- 
clared Gwendolyn.  "Oh,  how  tired  her 
poor  feet  must  be!"  (As  she  said  it,  she 
was  conscious  of  the  burning  ache  of  her 
own  feet;  and  yet  the  tears  that  swam  in 
her  eyes  were  tears  of  sympathy,  not  of 
pain.)  "Puffy!  Won't  you  eat  it?" 

Puffy  blinked  as  if  embarrassed. 
"Well,  you  see,  a  bee — er — makes  honey," 
he  began  lamely. 

The  figure  had  turned  a  corner  of  the 
Barn.  Now,  on  the  farther  side  of  the 


399 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

great  structure,  it  was  flitting  past 
the  openings. 

Gwendolyn  rested  a  hand  on  the  wing 
of  the  Bird.  "Won't  you  eat  it?"  she 
questioned. 

The  Bird  wagged  his  bumpy  head. 
"It's  against  all  the  laws  of  this  Land/' 
he  declared. 

"But  this  is  a  society  bee." 

"A  bird  isn't  even  allowed  to  eat  a  bad 
bee.  But"— chirping  low — "I'll  tell  you 
what  can  be  tried." 

"Yes?" 

"Ask  your  mother  to  trade  her  bonnet 
for  the  Piper's  poke" 

Gwendolyn  stared  at  him  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  understood.  "The  poke's 
prettier,"  she  declared.  "Oh,  if  she  only 
would!  Piper!" 

The     Piper     swaggered     up.     "Some 

collecting  on  hand?"  he  asked.    Swing- 

400 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

ing  as  usual  from  a  shoulder  was  the 
poke. 

Gwendolyn  thought  she  had  never  seen 
a  prettier  one.  Its  ribbon  bows  were 
fresh  and  smart;  its  lace  was  snow-white 
and  neatly  frilled. 

"Oh,  I  know  she'll  make  the  trade!" 
she  exclaimed  happily. 

The  Piper  considered  the  matter,  purs- 
ing his  lips  around  the  pipe-stem  in  his 
mouth;  standing  on  one  foot. 

Gwendolyn  appealed  to  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces.  "Maybe  moth-er'll  have  to 
have  her  ears  sharpened,"  she  suggested. 

The  little  old  gentleman  shook  his 
shaggy  head.  "Don't  let  her  hear  that 
pig!"  he  warned  darkly. 

"She'll  come  round  in  another  moment!" 
It  was  the  Doctor,  voice  very  cheery. 

At  that,  the  Piper  unslung  the  poke  and 

advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  road.     "I've 

401 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

never  wanted  this  crazy  poke/'  he  asserted 
over  a  shoulder  to  Gwendolyn.  "Now, 
I'll  just  get  rid  of  it.  And  I'll  present 
that  bonnet  with  the  bee"  (here  he  laughed 
harshly)  "to  a  woman  that  hasn't  footed 
a  single  one  of  my  bills.  Ha!  ha!" 


Again  that  high,  strident  note.  Gwen- 
dolyn's mother  was  circling  into  sight  once 
more.  Fortunately,  she  was  keeping  close 
to  the  outer  edge  of  the  road.  The  Piper 
faced  in  the  direction  she  was  speeding, 
and  prepared  to  race  beside  her. 

Bt/zz-z-z-z/ 

It  was  an  exciting  moment!  She  was 
holding  out  the  bonnet  as  before.  He 
thrust  the  poke  between  her  face  and  it, 
carefully  keeping  the  lace  and  the  bows 
in  front  of  her  very  eyes. 

"Madam!"  he  shouted.     "Trade!" 

"Moth-er!" 

402 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Her  mother  heard.  Her  look  fell  upon 
the  poke.  She  slowed  to  a  walk. 

"Tirade!"  shouted  the  Piper  again, 
dangling  the  poke  temptingly. 

She  stopped  short,  gazing  hard  at  the 
poke.      "Trade?"    she    repeated    coldly. 
(Her  voice  sounded  as  if  from  a  great  dis- 
tance.)    "Trade?    Well,    that    depends 
upon  what  They  say." 

Then  she  circled  on — at  such  a  terrible 
rate  that  the  Piper  could  not  keep  pace. 
He  ceased  running  and  fell  behind, 
breathing  hard  and  complaining  ill-tem- 
peredly. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  mourned  Gwendolyn.  The 
smoke  blown  back  from  that  fleeing  figure 
smarted  her  throat  and  eyes.  She  raised 
an  arm  to  shield  her  face.  Disappointed, 
and  feeling  a  first  touch  of  weariness,  she 
could  not  choke  back  a  great  sob  that 
shook  her  convulsively. 

403 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces,  whiskers 
buried  in  his  ragged  collar,  was  nodding 
thoughtfully.  "By  and  by/'  he  mur- 
mured; " — by  and  by,  presently,  later 


on." 


The  Doctor  was  even  more  comforting. 
"There!  There!"  he  said.  "Don't  cry." 

"But,  oh,"  breathed  Gwendolyn,  her 
bosom  heaving,  "why  don't  you  feel  her 
pulse?" 

"It's — it's  terrible,"  faltered  Gwen- 
dolyn's father.  His  agonized  look  was 
fixed  upon  the  road. 

Now  the  road  was  indeed  terrible.  For 
there  were  great  chasms  in  it — chasms  that 
yawned  darkly;  that  opened  and  closed 
as  if  by  the  rush  and  receding  of  water. 
Gwendolyn's  mother  crossed  them  in 
flitting  leaps,  as  from  one  roof-top  to  an- 
other. Her  daintily  shod  feet  scarcely 
touched  the  road,  so  swift  was  her  going. 

404 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

A  second,  and  she  was  whipped  from 
sight  at  the  Barn's  corner.  About  her 
slender  figure,  as  it  disappeared,  dust 
mingled  with  the  smoke — mingled  and 
swirled,  funnel-like  in  shape,  with  a  wide 
base  and  a  narrow  top,  like  the  picture  of 
a  water-spout  in  the  back  of  Gwendolyn's 
geography. 

The  Piper  came  back,  wiping  his  fore- 
head. "What  does  she  care  about  a 
poke !"  he  scolded,  flinging  himself  down 
irritably.  "Huh!  All  she  thinks  about 
is  what  They  say!" 

At  that  Gwendolyn's  spirits  revived. 
Somehow,  instantly  and  clearly,  she  knew 
what  should  be  done ! 

But  when  she  opened  her  mouth,  she 
found  that  she  could  not  speak.  Her  lips 
were  dry.  Her  tongue  would  not  move. 
She  could  only  swallow. 

Then,  just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of 
405 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

throwing  herself  down  and  giving  way 
utterly  to  tears,  she  felt  a  touch  on  her 
hand — a  furry  touch.  Next,  something 
was  slipped  into  her  grasp.  It  was  the 
lip-case ! 

"Well,  Mr.  Piper,"  she  cried  out, 
"what  do  They  say?" 

They  were  close  by,  standing  side  by 
side,  gazing  at  nothing.  For  their  eyes 
were  wide  open,  their  faces  expression- 
less. 

Gwendolyn's  father  addressed  them. 
"I  never  asked  my  wife  to  drop  that  sort 
of  thing,"  he  said  gravely,  " — for  Gwen- 
dolyn's sake.  Tou  might,  I  suppose." 
One  hand  was  in  his  pocket. 

The  two  pairs  of  wide-open  eyes 
blinked  once.  The  two  mouths  spoke  in 
unison :  "Money  talks." 

Gwendolyn's  father  drew  his  hand  from 
406 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

his  pocket.  It  was  filled  with  bills. 
"Will  these—?"  he  began. 

It  was  the  Piper  who  snatched  the 
money  out  of  his  hand  and  handed  it  to 
They.  And  thinking  it  over  afterward, 
Gwendolyn  felt  deep  gratitude  for  the 
promptness  with  which  They  acted.  For 
having  received  the  money,  They  ad- 
vanced into  that  terrible  road,  faced  half- 
about,  and  halted. 

The  angry  song  of  the  bee  was  faint 
then.  For  the  slender  figure  was  speed- 
ing past  those  patches  of  light  that  could 
be  seen  through  the  girders  of  the  Barn. 
But  soon  the  buzzing  grew  louder — as 
Gwendolyn's  mother  came  into  sight, 
shrouded,  and  scarcely  discernible. 

They  met  her  as  she  came  on,  blocking 
her  way.  And,  "Madam!"  They  shouted. 
"Trade  your  bonnet  for  the  Piper's  poke!" 

407 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  held  her  breath. 

Her  mother  halted.  Now  for  the  first 
time  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  about 
— as  if  dazed  and  miserable.  There  was 
a  flush  on  each  smooth  cheek.  She  was 
panting  so  that  her  lips  quivered. 

The  Piper  rose  and  hurried  forward. 
And  seeing  him,  half-timidly  she  reached 
out  a  hand — a  slender,  white  hand. 
Quickly  he  relinquished  the  poke,  but 
when  she  took  it,  made  a  cup  of  his  two 
hands  under  it,  as  if  he  feared  she  might 
let  it  fall.  The  poke  was  heavier  than 
the  bonnet.  She  held  it  low,  but  looked 
at  it  intently,  smiling  a  little. 

Presently,  without  even  a  parting 
glance,  she  held  the  bonnet  out  to  him. 
"Take  it  away,"  she  commanded.  "It 
isn't  becoming/' 

He  received  it;  and  promptly  made  off 

along  the  road,  the  bonnet  held  up  before 

408 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

his  face.  "When  it  comes  to  charginY'  he 
called  back,  with  an  independent  jerk  of 
the  head,  "I'm  the  only  chap  that  can 
keep  ahead  of  a  chauffeur."  And  he 
laughed  uproariously. 

Gwendolyn's  mother  now  began  to  ad- 
mire the  poke,  turning  it  around,  at  the 
same  time  tilting  her  head  to  one  side, — 
this  very  like  the  Bird!  She  fingered  the 
lace,  and  picked  at  the  ribbon.  Then, 
having  viewed  it  from  every  angle,  she 
opened  it — as  if  to  put  it  on. 

There  was  a  bounce  and  a  piercing 
squeal.  Then  over  the  rim  of  the  poke, 
with  a  thump  as  it  hit  the  roadway,  shot 
a  small  black-and-white  pig. 

She  dropped  the  poke  and  sprang  back, 
frightened.  And  as  the  porker  cut  away 
among  the  trees,  she  wheeled,  caught 
sight  of  Gwendolyn,  and  suddenly  opened 
her  arms. 

409 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

With  a  cry*  Gwendolyn  flung  herself 
forward.  No  need  now  to  fear  harm- 
ing an  elegant  dress,  or  roughing  carefully 
arranged  hair.  "Moth-er!"  She  clasped 
her  mother's  neck,  pressing  a  wet  cheek 
against  a  cheek  of  satin. 

"Oh,  my  baby!  My  baby! — Look  at 
mother!" 

"I  am  looking  at  you,"  answered  Gwen- 
dolyn, half  sobbing  and  half  laughing. 
"I've  looked  at  you  for  a  long  time. 
'Cause  I  love  you  so!  I  love  you!" 

The  next  moment  the  Man-Who- 
Makes-Faces  dashed  suddenly  aside — to 
a  nearby  flower-bordered  square  of  packed 
ground  over  which,  blazing  with  lights, 
hung  one  huge  tree.  Under  the  tree  was 
a  high,  broad  bill-board,  a  squat  stool,  and 
two  short-legged  tables.  The  little  old 
gentleman  began  to  bang  his  furniture 

about  excitedly. 

410 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"The  tables  are  turned!"  he  shouted. 
'The  tables  are  turned!" 

"Of  course  the  tables  are  turned/'  said 
Gwendolyn;  "but  what  diff'rence'll  that 
make?3 

"Difference?"  he  repeated,  tearing 
back;  "it  means  that  from  now  on  every- 
thing's going  to  be  exactly  opposite  to 
what  it  has  been." 

"Oo!  Goody!"  Then  lifting  a  puzzled 
face.  "But  why  didn't  you  turn  the  tables 
at  first?  And  why  didn't  we  stay  here? 
My  moth-er  was  here  all  the  time. 
And—" 

The  Man-Who-Makes-Faces  regarded 
her  solemnly.  "Suppose  we  hadn't  gone 
around,"  he  said.  "Just  suppose."  Be- 
fore her,  in  a  line,  were  They,  the  Doctor, 
the  Policeman,  Puffy  and  the  Bird.  He 
indicated  them  by  a  nod. 

She  nodded  too,  comprehending. 
411 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"But  now/3  went  on  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman, "we  must  all  absquatulate."  He 
took  her  hand. 

"Oh,  must  you?"  she  asked  regretfully. 
Absquatulate  was  a  big  word,  but  she  un- 
derstood it,  having  come  across  it  one  day 
in  the  Dictionary. 

"Good-by."  He  leaned  down.  And 
she  saw  that  his  round  black  eyes  were 
clouded,  while  his  square  brush-like  brows 
were  working  with  the  effort  of  keeping 
back  his  tears.  "Good-by!"  He  stepped 
back  out  of  the  waiting  line,  turned,  and 
made  off  slowly,  turning  the  crank  of  the 
hand-organ  as  he  went. 

Now  the  voices  of  They  spoke  up. 
"We  also  bid  you  good-night,"  They  said 
politely.  "We  shall  have  to  go.  People 
must  hear  about  this."  And  shoulder  to 
shoulder  They  wheeled  and  followed  the 
little  old  gentleman. 

412 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"But  my  Puffy!"  said  Gwendolyn. 
cTd  like  to  keep  him.  I  don't  care  if  he 
is  shabby." 

For  answer  there  was  a  crackling  and 
crashing  in  the  underbrush,  as  if  some 
heavy-footed  animal  were  lumbering 
away. 

"I  think/'  explained  her  father,  "that 
he's  gone  to  make  some  poor  little  boy  very 
happy." 

"Oh,  the  Rich  Little  Poor  Boy,  I  guess/' 
said  Gwendolyn,  contented. 

The  Bird  was  just  in  front  of  her.  He 
looked  very  handsome  and  bright  as  he 
flirted  his  rudder  saucily,  and  darted,  now 
up,  now  down.  Presently,  he  began  to 
sing — a  glad,  clear  song.  And  singing, 
rose  into  the  air. 

"Oh!"  she  breathed.  "He's  happy 
'cause  he  got  that  salt  off  his  tail."  When 


413 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

she  looked  again  at  the  line,  the  Policeman 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  "Doctor!" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  you  go.55 

"The  Doctor  is  right  here/5  said  her 
mother,  soothingly. 

Gwendolyn  smiled.  And  put  one  hand 
in  the  clasp  of  her  mother's,  the  other  in 
a  bigger  grasp. 

"Tired  out — all  tired  out,"  murmured 
her  father. 

She  was  sleepy,  too — almost  past  the 
keeping  open  of  her  gray  eyes.  "Long 
as  you  both  are  with  me,"  she  whispered, 
"I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  was  back  in  the 
nursery." 

The  glow  that  filled  the  Land  now 
seemed  suddenly  to  soften.  The  clus- 
tered tapers  had  lessened — to  a  single 
chandelier  of  four  globes.  Next,  the  for- 
est trees  began  to  flatten,  and  take  on  the 

414 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

appearance  of  a  conventional  pattern. 
The  grass  became  rug-like  in  smoothness. 
The  sky  squared  itself  to  the  proportions 
of  a  ceiling. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  change  at 
hand ! 

"We're  getting  close!"  she  announced 
happily. 

The  rose-colored  light  was  dim,  peace- 
ful. Here  and  there  through  it  she  caught 
glints  of  white  and  gold.  Then  familiar 
objects  took  shape.  She  made  out  the 
pier-glass;  flanking  it,  her  writing-desk, 
upon  which  were  the  two  silver-framed 
portraits.  And  there — between  the  por- 
traits— was  the  flower-embossed  calendar, 
with  pencil-marks  checking  off  each  figure 
in  the  lines  that  led  up  to  her  birthday. 

She  sighed — a  deep,  tremulous  sigh  of 
content. 


415 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OHE  moved  her  head  from  side  to  side 
^  slowly.  And  felt  the  cool  touch  of 
the  pillow  against  either  cheek.  Then  she 
tried  to  lift  her  arms;  but  found  that  one 
hand  was  still  in  a  big  grasp,  the  other  in 
a  clasp  that  was  softer. 

Little  by  little,  and  with  effort,  she 
opened  her  gray  eyes.  In  the  dimness 
she  could  see,  to  her  left,  scarcely  more 
than  an  outline  of  a  dark-clad  figure, 
stooped  and  watchful;  of  that  other 
slender  figure  opposite.  After  all  the 
fatigue  and  worry  of  the  night,  her  father 
and  mother  were  with  her  yet !  And  some- 
one was  standing  at  the  foot  of  her  bed, 
leaning  and  looking  down  at  her.  That 
was  the  Doctor. 

416 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

She  lay  very  still.  This  was  a  novel 
experience,  this  having  both  father  and 
mother  in  the  nursery  at  the  same  time — 
and  plainly  in  no  haste  to  depart!  The 
heaviness  of  deep  sleep  was  gradually 
leaving  her.  Yet  she  forbore  to  speak; 
and  as  each  moment  went  she  dreaded  the 
passing  of  it,  lest  her  wonderful  new  hap- 
piness come  to  an  end. 

Presently  she  ventured  a  look  around — 
at  the  pink-tinted  ceiling,  with  its  cluster 
of  full-blown  plaster  roses  out  of  which 
branched  the  chandelier;  at  the  walls  of 
soft  rose,  met  here  and  there  by  the  deeper 
rose  of  the  brocade  hangings ;  at  the  plushy 
rug,  the  piano,  the  large  table — now  scat- 
tered with  an  unusual  assortment  of 
bottles  and  glasses ;  at  the  dresser,  crystal- 
topped  and  strewn  daintily,  the  deep  up- 
holstered chair,  and  the  long  cushioned 
across  the  front  window,  over  which, 
417 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

strangely  enough,  no  dome-topped  cage 
was  swinging. 

And  there  was  the  tall  toy-case.  The 
shelves  of  it  were  unchanged.  On  that 
one  below  the  line  of  prettily  clad  dolls 
were  the  toys  she  favored  most — the  black- 
and-red  top,  the  handsome  soldier  in  the 
scarlet  coat,  the  jointed  snake  beside  its 
pipe-like  box,  and  the  somersault  man, 
poised  heels  over  head.  Beyond  these, 
ranged  in  a  buff  row,  were  the  six  small 
ducks  acquired  at  Easter.  She  gave  each 
plaything  a  keen  glance.  They  reminded 
her  vividly  of  the  long  busy  night  just 
past! 

Her  small  nose  wrinkled  in  a  quizzical 
smile. 

At  that  the  three  waiting  figures 
stirred. 

Her  look  came  back  to  them,  to  res 
first  upon  her  father's  face,  noting  how 

418 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

long  and  pale  and  haggard  it  was,  how 
sunken  the  temples,  how  bloodless  the 
tightly  pressed  lips,  how  hollow  the  un- 
shaven cheeks.  When  she  turned  to  gaze 
at  her  mother,  as  daintily  clad  as  ever,  and 
as  delicately  perfumed — showing  no  evi- 
dence of  dusty  travel — she  saw  how  piti- 
fully pale  was  that  dear  beautiful  face. 
But  the  eyes  were  no  longer  proud ! — only 
anxious,  tender  and  purple-shadowed. 

Next,  Gwendolyn  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
Doctor,  and  felt  suddenly  conscience- 
stricken,  remembering  how  she  had  always 
dreaded  him,  had  taken  the  mere  thought 
of  his  coming  as  punishment;  remember- 
ing, too,  how  helpful  and  kind  he  had  been 
to  her  through  the  night. 

He  began  to  speak,  low  and  earnestly, 
and  as  if  continuing  something  already 
half  said: 

"Pardon  my  bluntness,  but  it's  a  bad 
419 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

thing  when  there's  too  much  money  spent 
on  forcing  the  brain  before  the  body  is 
given  a  chance — or  the  soul.  Does  a 
child  get  food  that  is  simple  and  nourish- 
ing, and  enough  of  it?  Is  all  exercise 
taken  in  the  open?  Too  often,  I  find, 
where  there's  a  motor  at  the  beck  and  call 
of  a  nurse,  the  child  in  her  charge  is  ut- 
terly cut  off — and  in  the  period  of  quick- 
est growth — from  a  normal  supply  of 
plain  walking.  Every  boy  and  girl  has 
a  right"  (his  voice  deepened  with  feel- 
ing) "to  the  great  world  out  of  doors. 
Let  the  warm  sun,  and  the  fresh  air,  and 
God's  good  earth — " 

Gwendolyn  moved.  "Is — is  he  pray- 
ing?" she  whispered. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Then, 
"No,  daughter,"  answered  her  father, 
while  her  mother  leaned  to  lay  a  gentle 
hand  on  her  forehead.  The  Doctor  went 

420 


'The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

aside  to  the  larger  table  and  busied  him- 
self with  some  bottles.  When  he  came 
back,  her  father  lifted  her  head  a  trifle  by 
lifting  the  pillow — her  mother  rising 
quickly  to  assist — and  the  Doctor  put  a 
glass  to  Gwendolyn's  lips.  She  drank 
j dutifully,  and  was  lowered. 

At  once  she  felt  stronger.  "Is  the  sun 
up?"  she  asked.  Her  voice  was  weak,  and 
somewhat  hoarse. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  sky?"  asked 
her  father.  And  without  waiting  for  her 
eager  nod,  crossed  to  the  front  window 
and  drew  aside  the  heavy  silk  hangings. 

Serenely  blue  was  the  long  rectangle 
framed  by  curtains  and  casing.  Across  it 
not  a  single  fat  sheep  was  straying. 

"Moth-er!" 

"Yes,  darling?" 

"Is — is  always  the  same  piece  of  Heaven 

right  there  through  the  window?" 

421 


The  Poor  Little  RicH  Girl 

"No.  The  earth  is  turning  all  the 
time — just  as  your  globe  in  the  school- 
room turns.  And  so  each  moment  you  see 
a  new  square  of  sky." 

The  Doctor  nodded  with  satisfaction. 
"Um!  Better,  aren't  we?"  he  inquired, 
smiling  down. 

She  returned  the  smile.  "Well,  7  am," 
she  declared.  "But — I  didn't  know  you 
felt  bad." 

He  laughed.  "Tell  me  something,"  he 
went  on.  "I  sent  a  bottle  of  medicine  here 
yesterday." 

"Yes.    It  was  a  little  bottle." 

"How  much  of  it  did  Jane  give  you? 
Can  you  remember?" 

"Well,  first  she  poured  out  one  tea- 
spoonful — " 

The  Doctor  had  been  leaning  again  on 
the  foot  of  the  white-and-gold  bed.  Now 
he  fell  back  of  a  sudden.  "A  teaspoon- 

422 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

he  gasped.  And  to  Gwendolyn's 
father,  "Why,  that  wretched  girl  didn't 
read  the  directions  on  the  bottle!" 

There  was  another  silence.  The  two 
men  stared  at  each  other.  But  Gwen- 
dolyn's mother,  her  face  paler  than  before, 
bent  above  the  yellow  head  on  the  pillow. 

"After  I  drank  that  teaspoonful,"  went 
on  Gwendolyn,  "Jane  wouldn't  believe 
me.  And  so  she  made  me  take  the  other." 

"Another!" — it  was  the  Doctor  once 
more.  He  pressed  a  trembling  hand  to  his 
forehead. 

Her  father  rose  angrily.  "She  shall  be 
punished,"  he  declared.  And  began  to 
walk  to  and  fro.  "I  won't  let  this  pass." 

Gwendolyn's  look  followed  him  ten- 
derly. "Well,  you  see,  she  didn't  know 
about — about  nursery  work,"  she  ex- 
plained. :  'Cause  before  she  came  here 
she  was  just  a  cook." 

423 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Oh,  my  baby  daughter!"  murmured 
Gwendolyn's  mother,  brokenly.  She  bent 
forward  until  her  face  was  hidden  against 
the  silken  cover  of  the  bed.  "Mother 
didn't  know  you  were  being  neglected! 
She  thought  she  was  giving  you  the  best 
of  care,  dear!" 

"Two  spoonfuls!"  said  the  Doctor, 
grimly.  "That  explains  everything !" 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  want  to  take  the  last 
one,"  protested  Gwendolyn,  hastily, 
" — though  it  tasted  good.  She  made  me. 
She  said  if  I  didn't—" 

"So!"  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  interrupt- 
ing. "She  frightened  the  poor  little  help- 
less thing  in  order  to  get  obedience!" 

"Gwendolyn!"  whispered  her  mother. 
"She  frightened  you?' 

The  gray  eyes  smiled  wisely.  "It 
doesn't  matter  now,"  she  said,  a  hint  of 
triumph  in  her  voice.  "I've  found  out 

424 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

that  P'licemen  are  nice.  And  so  are — 
are  Doctors" — she  dimpled  and  nodded. 
"And  all  the  bears  in  the  world  that  are 
outside  of  cages  are  just  Puffy  Bears 
grown  up/5  Then  uncertainly,  "But  I 
didn't  find  out  about — the  other/3 

"What  other?"  asked  her  father,  paus- 
ing in  his  walk. 

The  gray  eyes  were  diamond-bright 
now.  "Though  I  don't  really  believe  it," 
she  hastened  to  add.  "But — do  wicked 
men  keep  watch  of  this  house." 

"Wicked  men?"  Her  mother  suddenly 
straightened. 

"Kidnapers." 

This  innocent  statement  had  an  unex- 
pected effect.  Again  her  father  began  to 
stride  up  and  down  angrily,  while  her 
mother,  head  drooping  once  more,  began 
to  weep. 

"Oh,  mother  didn't  know!"  she  sobbed. 
425 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Mother  didn't  guess  what  terrible 
things  were  happening!  Oh,  forgive  her! 
Forgive  her!" 

The  Doctor  came  to  her  side.  :Too 
much  excitement  for  the  patient/5  he  re- 
minded her.  "Don't  you  think  you'd  bet- 
ter go  and  lie  down  for  a  while,  and  have 
a  little  rest?' 

A  startled  look.  And  Gwendolyn  put 
out  a  staying  hand  to  her  mother.  Then 
— "Moth-er  is  tired,"  she  assented. 
"She's  tireder  than  /  am.  'Cause  it  was 
hard  work  going  round  and  round  Robin 
Hood's  Barn." 

The  Doctor  hunted  a  small  wrist  and 
felt  the  pulse  in  it.  "That's  all  right," 
he  said  to  her  mother  in  an  undertone. 
"Everything's  still  pretty  real  to  her,  you 
see.  But  her  pulse  is  normal."  He  laid 
cool  fingers  across  her  forehead.  'Tem- 
perature's almost  normal  too." 

426 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Gwendolyn  felt  that  she  had  not  made 
herself  altogether  clear.  She  hastened  to 
explain.  "I  mean/5  she  said,  "when 
moth-er  was  carrying  that  society  bee  in 
her  bonnet." 

Confusion  showed  in  the  Doctor's  quick 
glance  from  parent  to  parent.  Then,  "I 
think  Til  just  drop  down  into  the  pantry," 
he  said  hastily,  "and  see  how  that  young 
nurse  from  over  yonder  is  getting  along.55 
He  jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
side  window  as  he  went  out. 

Gwendolyn  wondered  just  who  the 
young  nurse  was.  She  opened  her  lips  to 
ask;  then  saw  how  painfully  her  mother 
had  colored  at  the  mere  mention  of  the 
person  in  question,  and  so  kept  silence. 

The  Doctor  gone,  her  father  came  to  her 
mother's  side  and  patted  a  shoulder. 
"Well,  we  shan't  ever  say  anything  more 

about  that  bee,"  he  declared,  laughing, 

427 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

yet  serious  enough.     "Shall  we,   Gwen- 
dolyn!" 

"No."  She  blinked,  puzzling  over  it 
a  little. 

"There!  It's  settled."  He  bent  and 
kissed  his  wife.  ''You  thought  you  were 
doing  the  best  thing  for  our  little  girl— 
/  know  that,  dear.  You  had  her  future 
in  mind.  And  it's  natural — and  right — 
for  a  mother  to  think  of  making  friends — 
the  right  kind,  too — and  a  place  in  the  so- 
cial world  for  her  daughter  And  I've  been 
short-sighted,  and  neglectful,  and— 

"Ah!"    She   raised   wet   eyes   to  him. 
'You  had  your  worries.    You  were  do- 
ing more  than  your  share.    You  had  to 
meet  the  question  of  money.    While  I- 

He  interrupted  her.  "We  both  thought 
we  were  doing  our  very  best,"  he  de- 
clared. 


428 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"We  almost  did  our  worst!  Oh,  what 
would  it  all  have  amounted  to — what 
would  anything  have  mattered — if  we'd 
lost  our  little  girl!" 

The  pink  came  rushing  to  Gwendolyn's 
cheeks.  "Why,  I  wasn't  lost  at  all!" 
she  declared  happily.  "And,  oh,  it  was 
so  good  to  have  my  questions  all  answered, 
and  understand  so  many  things  I  didn't 
once — and  to  be  where  all  the  put-out 
lights  go,  and — and  where  soda-water 
comes  from.  And  I  was  so  glad  to  get  rid 
of  Thomas  and  Jane  and  Miss  Royle, 
and—" 

The  hall-door  opened.  She  checked 
herself  to  look  that  way.  Someone  was 
entering  with  a  tray.  It  was  a  maid — a 
maid  wearing  a  sugar-bowl  cap. 

Gwendolyn  knew  her  instantly — that 
pretty  face,  as  full  and  rosy  as  the  face  of 
the  French  doll,  and  framed  by  saucy 

429 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

wisps  and  curls  as  fair  as  Gwendolyn's 
own — and  freckleless! 

"Oh !"    It  was  a  low  cry  of  delight. 

The  nurse  smiled.  She  had  a  tray  in 
one  hand.  On  the  tray  was  a  blue  bowl 
of  something  steaming  hot.  She  set  the 
tray  down  and  came  to  the  bed-side. 

Gwendolyn's  eyes  were  wide  with  won- 
der. "How — how — ?"  she  began. 

Her  mother  answered.  "Jane  called 
down  to  the  Policeman,  and  he  ran  to  the 
house  on  the  corner." 

Now  the  dimples  sprang  into  place. 
"Goody!55  exclaimed  Gwendolyn,  and 
gave  a  little  chuckle. 

Her  mother  went  on:  "We  never  can 
feel  grateful  enough  to  her,  because  she 
was  such  a  help.  And  we're  so  glad  you're 
friends  already." 

Gwendolyn  nodded.  "She's  one  of  my 
window-friends,"  she  explained. 

43° 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"I'm  going  to  stay  with  you/'  said  the 
nurse.  She  smoothed  Gwendolyn's  hair 
fondly.  "Will  you  like  that?" 

"It's  fine!    I — I  wanted  you!" 

The  Doctor  re-entered.  "Well,  how 
does  our  sharp  little  patient  feel  now?"  he 
inquired. 

"I  feel  hungry." 

"I  have  some  broth  for  you,"  announced 
the  pretty  nurse,  and  brought  forward  the 
tray. 

Gwendolyn  looked  down  at  the  bowl. 
"M-m-m !"  she  breathed.  "It  smells  good ! 
Now"— to  the  Doctor — "if  I  had  one  of 
your  nice  bread-pills — " 

At  that,  curiously  enough,  everyone 
laughed,  the  Doctor  heartiest  of  all. 
And  "Hush!"  chided  her  mother  gently, 
while  the  Doctor  shook  a  teasing  finger. 

"Just  for  that,"  said  he,  "we'll  have  eat- 
ing— and  no  conversation — for  five  whole 

431 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

minutes."  Whereupon  he  began  to  scrib- 
ble on  a  pad,  laughing  to  himself  every 
now  and  then  as  he  wrote. 

"That  must  be  a  cheerful  prescription," 
observed  Gwendolyn's  father.  He  him- 
self looking  happier  than  he  had. 

"The  country,"  answered  the  Doctor, 
"is  always  cheerful." 

Gwendolyn's  spoon  slipped  from  her 
fingers.  She  lifted  eager,  shining  eyes. 
"Moth-er,"  she  half-whispered,  "does  the 
Doctor  mean  Johnnie  'Blake's?" 

The  Doctor  assented  energetically.  "I 
prescribe  Johnnie  Blake's,"  he  declared. 

"A-a-ah!"  It  was  a  deep  breath  of  hap- 
piness. "I  promised  Johnnie  that  I'd 
comeback!" 

"But  if  my  little  daughter  isn't 
strong — "  Her  father  gave  a  sidewise 
glance  at  the  steaming  bowl  on  the  tray. 


432 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

Thus  prompted,  Gwendolyn  fell  to  eat- 
ing once  more,  turning  her  attention  to  the 
croutons  bobbing  about  on  the  broth. 
Each  was  square  and  crunchy,  but  not  so 
brown  as  a  bread-pill. 

"I  shall  now  read  my  Johnnie  Blake 
prescription/'  announced  the  Doctor,  and 
held  up  a  leaf  from  the  pad.  "Hm! 
Hm!"  Then,  in  a  business-like  tone: 
ccfake  two  pairs  of  sandals^  a  dozen  cheap 
gingham  dresses  with  plenty  of  pockets 
and  extra  pieces  for  patches^  and  a  bottle 
of  something  good  for  wild  black-berry 
scratches!'  He  bowed.  "Mix  all  to- 
gether with  one  strong  medium-sized  gar- 
den-hoe— " 

"Oh,  fath-er,"  cried  Gwendolyn,  her 
hoarse  voice  wistful  with  pleading,  "you 
won't  mind  if  I  play  with  Johnnie,  will 


you? 


Tlay  all  the  time/'  answered  her  fa- 

433 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 
ther.     "Play  hard — and  then  play  some 


more." 


"He  isn't  a  common  little  boy." 
Whereupon,  satisfied,  she  returned  to  the 
blue  bowl. 

"And  now/'  went  on  the  Doctor,  "as 
to  directions/'  He  held  up  other  leaves 
from  the  pad.  "First  week  (you'll  have 
to  go  easy  the  first  week) ,  use  the  prescrip- 
tion each  day  as  follows:  When  driving; 
also  when  lying  on  back  watching  birds  in 
trees  (and  have  a  nap  out  of  doors  if  you 
feel  like  it)  ;  also  when  lighting  the  fire  at 
sundown.  Nurse,  here,  will  watch  out  for 
fingers." 

At  that,  another  pleased  little  chuckle. 

"Second  week:"  (the  Doctor  coughed 
importantly)  "When  riding  your  own 
fat  pony,  or  chasing  butterflies — assisted 
by  one  good-natured,  common,  ordinary, 
long-haired  dog;  or  when  fishing  (stream 

434 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

or  bath-tub,  it  doesn't  matter!)  or  carry- 
ing kindling  in  to  Cook — whether  you're 
tired  or  not!" 

"I  Wit!" 

"Third  week:  When  baking  mud- 
pies,  or  gathering  ferns  (but  put  'em  in 
water  when  you  get  home) ;  when  jaunt- 
ing in  old  wagon  to  hay-field,  orchard  or 
vegetable-patch — this  includes  tomboy 
yelling.  And  go  barefoot." 

Gwendolyn's  spoon,  crouton-laden, 
wabbled  in  mid-air.  "Go  barefoot?" 
she  repeated,  small  face  flushing  to  a 
pleased  pink.  "Right  away?  Before  I'm 
eight?" 

"Um !"  assented  the  Doctor.     "And  shin 

up  trees   (but  don't  disturb  eggs  if  you 

find  'em).    Also  do  barefoot  gardening, 

-where  there  isn't  a  plant  to  hurt!    And 

wade  the  creek." 

Again  the  dimples  came  rushing  to  their 
435 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

places.  "I  like  squashing/3  she  declared, 
smiling  round. 

'Then  isn't  there  a  hill  to  climb?'  con- 
tinued the  Doctor,  "with  your  hat  down 
your  back  on  a  string?  And  stones  to 
roll—?" 

The  small  face  grew  suddenly  serious. 
"No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  slow 
shake  of  the  head,  Td  rather  not  turn  any 


stones." 


"Very  well— hmlhm!" 

"Oh,  and  there'll  be  jolly  times  of  an 
evening  after  supper,"  broke  in  her  fa- 
ther, enthusiastically.  The  stern  lines  of 
his  face  were  relaxed,  and  a  score  of  tiny 
ripples  were  carrying  a  smile  from  his 
mouth  to  his  tired  eyes.  "We'll  light  all 
the  candles — " 

"Daddy!"  She  relinquished  the  bowl, 
and  turned  to  him  swiftly.  "Not — not 
candles  that  burn  at  both  ends — " 

436 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"No."     He  stopped  smiling. 

"You're  a  wise  little  body!"  pro- 
nounced the  Doctor,  taking  her  hand. 

"How's  the  pulse  now?"  asked  her 
mother.  "Somehow" — with  a  nervous  lit- 
tle laugh — "she  makes  me  anxious." 

"Normal,"  answered  the  Doctor 
promptly.  "Only  thing  that  isn't  normal 
about  her  is  that  busy  brain,  which  is  ab- 
normally bright."  Thereupon  he  shook 
the  small  hand  he  was  holding,  strode  to 
the  table,  and  picked  up  a  leather-covered 
case.  It  was  black,  and  held  a  number  of 
bottles.  In  no  way  did  it  resemble  the 
pill-basket.  "And  if  a  certain  person  is  to 
leave  for  the  country  soon — " 

Gwendolyn's  smile  was  knowing. 
"You  mean  ca  certain  party.' '  He  was 
trying  to  tease  her  with  that  old  nursery 
name ! 


437 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"—She'd  better  rest.  Good-by."  And 
with  that  mild  advice,  he  beckoned  the 
nurse  to  follow  him,  whispered  with  her  a 
moment  at  the  door,  and  was  gone. 

Gwendolyn's  father  resumed  his  place 
beside  the  bed.  "She  can  rest/'  he  de- 
clared, " — the  blessed  baby!  Not  a  gov- 
erness or  a  teacher  is  to  show  as  much  as  a 
hat-feather." 

She  nodded.  "We  don't  want  'em 
quacking  around." 

Someone  tapped  at  the  door  then,  and 
entered — Rosa,  bearing  a  card-tray  upon 
which  were  two  square  bits  of  pasteboard. 
"To  see  Madam,"  she  said,  presenting  the 
tray.  After  which  she  showed  her  white 
teeth  in  greeting  to  Gwendolyn,  then 
stooped,  and  touched  an  open  palm  with 
her  lips. 

Gwendolyn's  mother  read  the  cards,  and 
shook  her  head.  "Tell  the  ladies — ex- 

438 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

plain  that  I  can't  leave  my  little  daughter 
even  for  a  moment  to-day — " 

"Oh,  yes,  Madam." 

"And  that  we're  leaving  for  the  country 
very  soon." 

Rosa  bobbed  her  dark  head  as  she  backed 


away. 
"And,  Rosa—" 

" 


"Yes,  Madam? 
"You  know  what  I  need  in  the  country 
— where  we  were  before." 
A  bow. 
"Pack,    Rosa.    And   you   will   go,    of 


course." 


"And  Potter,  Madam?" 

"Potter,  too.  You'll  have  to  pack  a 
few  things  up  here  also."  A  white  hand 
indicated  the  wardrobe  door. 

"Very  well,  Madam." 

As  the  door  closed,  the  telephone  rang. 
Gwendolyn's  father  rose  to  answer  it.  "I 

439 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

think  it's  the  office,  dear/5  he  explained; 
and  into  the  transmitter — "Yes?  .  .  . 
Hello?  .  .  .  Yes.  Good-morning!  .  .  . 
Oh,  thanks!  She's  better.  .  .  .  And  by 
the  way,  just  close  out  that  line  of  stocks. 
Yes.  ...  I  shan't  be  back  in  the  office  for 
some  time.  I'm  leaving  for  the  country 
as  soon  as  Gwendolyn  can  stand  the  trip. 
To-morrow,  maybe,  or  the  next  day.  .  .  . 
No;  don't  go  into  the  market  until  I  come 
back.  I  intend  to  reconstruct  my  policy 
a  good  deal.  Yes.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes.  .  .  . 
Good-by." 

He  went  to  the  front  window.  And  as 
he  stood  in  the  light,  Gwendolyn  lay  and 
looked  at  him.  He  had  worn  green  the 
night  before.  But  now  there  was  not  a 
vestige  of  paper  money  showing  anywhere 
in  his  dress.  In  fact,  he  was  wearing  the 
suit — a  dark  blue — he  had  worn  that  night 
she  penetrated  to  the  library. 

440 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

"Fath-er." 

"Well,  little  daughter?" 

"I  was  wondering  has  anybody  scrib- 
bled on  the  General's  horse?— with 
chalk?" 

Her  father  looked  down  at  the  Drive. 
"The  General's  there!"  he  announced, 
glancing  back  at  her  over  a  shoulder. 
"And  his  horse  seems  in  fine  fettle  this 
morning,  prancing,  and  arching  his  neck. 
And  nobody's  scribbled  on  him,  which 
seems  to  please  the  General  very  much, 
for  he's  got  his  hat  off — " 

Gwendolyn  sat  up,  her  eyes  rounding. 
"To  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  soldiers!" 
she  told  her  mother.  "Only  everybody 
can't  see  the  soldiers." 

Her  father  came  back  to  her.  "/  can," 
he  declared  proudly.  "Do  you  want  to 
see  'em,  too? — just  a  glimpse,  mother! 
Comef  We'll  play  the  game  together!" 

441 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

And  the  next  moment,  silk  coverlet  and 
all,  Gwendolyn  was  swung  up  in  his  arms 
and  borne  to  the  window-seat. 

"And,  oh,  there's  the  Pliceman!"  she 
cried  out. 

"His  name  is  Flynn,"  informed  her  fa- 
ther. "And  twice  this  morning  he's  asked 
after  you." 

"Oh!"  she  stood  up  among  the  cushions 
to  get  a  better  view.  "He  takes  lost  lit- 
tle boys  and  girls  to  their  fath-ers  and 
moth-ers,  daddy,  and  he  takes  care  of  the 
trees,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  fountains, 
and — and  the  ob'lisk.  But  he  only  likes 
it  up  here  in  summer.  In  winter  he  likes 
to  be  Down-Town.  And  he  ought  to  be 
Down-Town,  'cause  he's  got  a  really  level 
head—" 

"Wave  to  him  now,"  said  her  father. 
"There!  He's  swinging  his  cap! — When 

442 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

we're  out  walking  one  of  these  times  we'll 
stop  and  shake  hands  with  him!" 

"With  the  hand-organ  man,  too,  fath-er? 
Oh,  you  like  him,  don't  you?  And  you 
won't  send  him  away!" 

"Father  won't." 

He  laid  her  back  among  the  pillows 
then.  And  she  turned  her  face  to  her 
mother. 

"Can't  you  sleep,  darling? — And  don't 
dream!" 

"Well,  I'm  pretty  tired." 

"We   know   what   a  hard   long  night 


it  was.'3 


"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  we're  going  back  to 
Johnnie  Blake's,  moth-er.  'Cause,  oh, 
I'm  tired  of  pretending!" 

"Of  pretending,"  said  her  father.  "Ah, 
yes." 

Her  mother  nodded  at  him.  "I'm  tired 
443 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

of  pretending,  too/'  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

Gwendolyn  looked  pleased.  "I  didn't 
know  you  ever  pretended/'  she  said. 
"Well,  of  course,  you  know  that  real 
things  are  so  much  nicer — " 

"Ah,  yes,  my  little  girl !"  It  was  her  fa- 
ther. His  voice  trembled. 

"Real  grass/' — she  smiled  up  at  him — 
"and  real  trees,  and  real  people."  After 
that,  for  a  while,  she  gave  herself  over  to 
thinking.  How  wonderful  that  one  single 
night  could  bring  about  the  changes  for 
which  she  had  so  longed! — the  living  in 
the  country;  the  eating  at  the  grown-up 
table,  and  having  no  governess. 

One  full  busy  night  had  done  all  that ! 
And  yet — 

She  glanced  down  at  herself.  Under 
her  pink  chin  was  the  lace  and  ribbon  of 
a  night-dress.  She  could  not  remember 

444 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

being  put  to  bed — could  not  even  recall 
coming  up  in  the  bronze  cage.  And  was 
the  plaid  gingham  with  the  patch-pocket 
now  hanging  in  the  wardrobe?  Brows 
knit,  she  slipped  one  small  foot  sidewise 
until  it  was  close  to  the  edge  of  the  bed- 
covers, then  of  a  sudden  thrust  it  out  from 
beneath  them.  The  foot  was  as  white  as 
if  it  had  only  just  been  bathed!  Not  a 
sign  did  it  show  of  having  waded  any 
stream,  pattered  through  mud,  or  trudged 
a  forest  road ! 

Presently,  "Moth-er," — sleepily. 

"Yes,  darling?" 

"Who  are  Law  and  Order?" 

A  moment's  silence.  Then,  "Well — 
er— " 

"Isn't  it  a  fath-er-and-moth-er  ques- 
tion?" 

"Why,  yes,  my  baby.    But  I — " 

"Father  will  tell  you,  dear."  He  was 
445 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

seated  beside  her  once  more.  "You  see, 
it's  this  way :" 

*'Can  you  tell  it  like  a  story,  fath-er?" 

"Yes." 

"A  once-upon-a-time  story?" 

"I'll  try.  But  first  you  must  under- 
stand that  law  and  order  are  not  two  peo- 
ple. Oh,  no.  And  they  aren't  anything 
a  little  girl  could  see — as  she  can  see  the 
mirror,  for  instance,  or  a  chair — " 

Gwendolyn  looked  at  the  mirror  and 
the  chair — thence  around  the  room.  These 
were  the  same  things  that  had  been  there 
all  the  time.  Now  how  different  each  ap- 
peared !  There  was  the  bed,  for  instance. 
She  had  never  liked  the  bed,  beautiful 
though  it  was.  Yet  to-day,  even  with  the 
sun  shining  on  the  great  panes  of  the  wide 
front  window,  it  seemed  good  to  be  lying 
in  it.  And  the  nursery,  once  a  hated  place 

446 


The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl 

—a  very  prison! — the  nursery  had  never 
looked  lovelier ! 

Her  father  went  on  with  his  explaining, 
low  and  cheerily,  and  as  confidentially  as 
if  to  a  grown-up.  Across  from  him,  lis- 
tening, was  her  mother,  one  soft  cheek  low- 
ered to  rest  close  to  the  small  face  half- 
hidden  in  the  pillow. 

When  her  father  finished  speaking, 
Gwendolyn  gave  a  deep  breath — of  hap- 
piness and  content.  Then,  "Moth-er!" 

"Yes?" — with  a  kiss  as  light  as  the 
touch  of  a  butterfly. 

Her  eyelids,  all  at  once,  seemed  curi- 
ously heavy.  She  let  them  flutter  down. 
But  a  drowsy  smile  curved  the  pink 
mouth.  "Moth-er,"  she  whispered; 
"moth-er,  the  Dearest  Pretend  has  come 
true!" 


447 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25    CENTS 

WILL  BE' ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $t.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


SEP  27  1933 
4Apr'57JG 


. 


REC'D  LD 

AUG  2  0  1957 

1,01. 

INTER  LIB 
LOAN 


AFUR 


Ifl  1969  2  2 
SENT  OM  ILL 

OCT  2  7  1993 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 

AUG  0  9  2006 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


YB  6728 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


